


The Dead Fencers' Society

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, ComeHither's attempts at languages, Coming Out, Eventual Smut, Fencing, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, UST, Unrequited Love, d'Artagnan pining after Constance, learn with me, will change rating accordingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Memento mori</i>," Athos muttered morbidly, rubbing a knuckle over his chest. "Quite reassuring, all things considered."</p>
<p>"<i>Carpe diem</i>," Aramis insisted, his smile wide as if the world were his oyster. "It's only the college newspaper, Athos."</p>
<p>Porthos shook his head in fond amusement, his laugh teasing, "S'all Greek to me."</p>
<p>Athos gave a withering glance to the two grinning fools that stood at his side always, and wondered how he was going to get through a third year with them. Another year of casual touches, of harmless flirting, of reassuring hugs, of it slowly wrecking him. </p>
<p><i>Remember</i>, Athos thought, <i>you will die</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> My first modern AU, interspersed with more languages than I have a head for, but correct me, teach me, learn with me. The boys are a multilingual lot and I am but a humble Brit.
> 
> This fic is a labour of love, encouraged by my beloved beta SirLancelotTheBrave, and posted in honour of that brilliant man, Robin Williams.

> I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.  
>  I've been up and down and over and out, and I know one thing;  
>  Each time I find myself flat on my face,  
>  I pick myself up and get back in the race.
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra, _'That's Life'_

"This is an all stations, Piccadilly line train," the disjointed female voice crackled over the tannoy. "Next stop: Hounslow West."

Athos mouthed the familiar words and let his head tip back onto the chair, the sounds of clattering tracks and roaring tunnels in his ears. There was something unholy in how he had a thin scarf wound tight around his neck and yet he was still freezing.

With a sigh befitting an emperor nearing the end of his reign, Athos flicked his music onto shuffle and snorted contemptuously when Frank Sinatra's _'That's Life'_ began to play.

Frank didn't know the half of it - life had an alarming tendency to trip him up just when he thought he was coping; it had all the hallmarks of the ferociously unfair.

Outside of Athos' window, London loomed, a sleeping beast on the verge of a winter's dawn. It was grey, and dark, and cold, but it felt like more of a home than the house he had left that morning.

"This is: Hounslow East. Next stop: Osterley."

He'd been up since 5am, and that was Paris time. Now, back in England, it felt as if he had been awake for far too long already.

Not that anyone had noticed him leaving; his parents had been very aware of what time his plane was, but the sprawling house had been silent. Only the gardener had paid him any heed, their fogged breaths twirling in the frigid air as they nodded at each other over the frosted grass.

It was no more of a going away party than he had expected.

"This is: Boston Manor. Next stop: Northfields."

Athos closed his eyes and hunkered down further in his uncomfortable, scratchy, ridiculously reassuring, Underground train seat.

His parents had never forgiven him for choosing an English university – to be honest, they had never forgiven him for a myriad of things, none of which he felt deserved such an acerbic reaction. His dreams were so much stomping material to them.

Life was bitter as well as unfair, Frank.

But this was his way of picking himself up after falling flat on his face; England had been his new start, his new dream, his last chance.

He wouldn't be missed, not by his parents, not by Paris, not by the gardener, not by anyone.

"This is: South Ealing. Next stop: Acton—”

There was a commotion by the door, the sound of panting breaths and scraping bags. Athos frowned behind his closed eyelids; no one ever used the end carriages this early in the morning – it was why he liked them so much.

Someone sat down right next to him. In an empty carriage. At an outrageously early time.

They were warm and smelled like sandalwood.

It was the exact same scent that Athos had spent hours hunting for last Christmas.

"You know, they say 'mind the gap' for a reason, Porthos."

The low chuckle of a response was the first sincere thing Athos had heard in over three months. He smiled without opening his eyes, unable to restrain the burst of joy in his stomach, at the feeling of being able to stretch his wings after having them clipped for so long.

All morning he had felt adrift, in between homes, and suddenly he felt anchored to something steady. Athos shifted slightly, his shoulder leaning heavier on Porthos' broad one. "This is early for you,  _mon ami_."

The pet name dropped from his mouth without him meaning to say it. He was still straddling the mental border between London and Paris, but he knew where he wanted to be, who he wanted to be with.

On one side was the clutching blackness of his past, sharp turns, jagged metal, and the seductive scent of night-blooming flowers. On the other was the person he had  _become_ ; yes, that person was slightly – who was he kidding,  _very_  – damaged, but he had started healing here.

Heal what the best doctors in Paris could not.

"Yeah, well, knew you'd be in Heathrow at shit o'clock," Porthos laughed unabashedly, confirming the theory that Porthos had deliberately searched the furthest, emptiest carriage for him.

His misanthropic nature was getting far too predictable.

Athos opened his eyes to meet Porthos' darker ones and felt his chest twist in a way that shouldn't have been so familiar. Porthos had a grin that was at once friendly and dirty, as if he was considering hugging you but might bite your throat whilst he had you at his mercy.

The joy that had gripped Athos' stomach sparked treacherously into something entirely unwanted and chased away any memories of cold hallways and bitter goodbyes.

"Why were you back at Ealing?" he asked hoarsely, and mentally chanted the word  _idiot_ at himself.

Only idiots looked at one of their best friends for the first time in three months and immediately forgot every single promise that they had made themselves over the summer, almost forgot why some lives could never be lived.

Porthos shrugged, a movement of rippling muscle under his threadbare white t-shirt. "They 'ad a space open and I wanted to be closer to Uni."

Athos forced his attention onto the words; it was easier to focus on their easy friendship than the whirling miasma of emotions roiling in his head.

It was always easier to focus on that, that was the problem; he was too good at running away.

Porthos lived in halfway homes during the holidays, saving every single penny he could for when his government grant kicked in for the semester. As an orphan born and bred in London, he was a kid of the state, but his aptitude for criminal psychology had garnered him a place in one of the city's best universities.

They had met on this train two years ago, when Athos had foolishly brought all of his luggage with him. Porthos had watched him struggle for a bit, evidently torn between breaking the indomitable rules of the Underground and those of courtesy, before shouldering two bags and striking up a conversation.

Athos had been too shocked to do anything but reply numbly, "Yes, I'm enrolled at the Musketeers College, too."

That was the first time Athos had seen Porthos' insanely endearing grin, and the first time Athos had hidden a part of himself that he hadn't known existed – and still didn't know how to deal with.

Porthos offered him a piece of gum, not noticing the way Athos twitched when their fingers brushed. It had been too long; he had forgotten what a kick to the system Porthos could be, with his muscled legs clad in black-denim stretched out in front of him, and his 'shitkicker' boots that had seen better days.

Porthos was an ebony statue with the rough edges displayed proudly, like a sculptor who wanted his art to be seen in its  _entirety,_ not just the individual pieces.

 _Shit_ , he was such an idiot.

"Did Aramis write to you?" Porthos asked, breaking into his dangerously loud thoughts.

"Of course he did, copiously," he replied, thankful to fall back into his usual dry tone. "In fact, I told him to make any postage payable to me, and he took that as an opportunity to send me boxes of sweets."

Porthos chuckled, "You know 'e worries you won't eat enough without 'im there to bug you."

Athos smiled wryly, affection managing to soothe the raging storm in his chest. Those letters had been like bursts of light in the dreariness of his summer, and the packages like glorious fireworks.

He had lunched on lobster and caviar, but those tiny, almost-stale chocolates had somehow tasted infinitely better.

"Did he write to you, too?"

"'Course, how d'you think I knew you were comin' today?"

"You're meant to use your degree to capture criminals, not learn how to stalk me," he murmured archly, but felt his lip twitch when Porthos just raised an eyebrow at him.

"You can talk, Monsieur English," Porthos taunted, and Athos winced at the ridiculous nickname and Porthos' awful attempts at a French accent. "Your emails were non-existent."

"I'll have you know the word you were looking for is  _sporadic,_ " he said haughtily, but the effect was lost when Porthos snorted and mimicked him. "What did you want my emails for, anyway? Aramis' letters are like novels."

Porthos looked at him strangely then, a slight furrowing to his brow that Athos itched to reach out and smooth, but kept himself firmly in check. As he always did.

"Like to know you're doin' alright, 's'all," Porthos said, as if it was obvious, and it was, it should have been.

Athos had forgotten what it was like to be with people that actually cared and weren't just acting on some facsimile of emotion.

He felt the wall around his heart start to quake, but he had built it the moment he had waved goodbye to his best friends and it was proving difficult to rip down again.

It had taken a beating this summer, too often had he seen cold, empty smiles and compared them to the bright, happy ones of Porthos and Aramis, and found his life  _wanting._

Honestly, he was already wanting too damn much.

When they finally got to their station, he was glad that Porthos was there. It would have felt too strange to walk onto campus without him by his side.

It occurred to him that Porthos and Aramis had known that.

Athos blinked stupidly at Porthos' broad back, at the bedraggled Nike bag with Porthos' few favoured possessions in, and realised that for all of his life's problems, he had two of the best friends in the entire world.

Aramis and Porthos were the ones who picked him up, put him back on his feet – sometimes literally. He couldn't be flung over Porthos' shoulder like Aramis could, but they had propped him up and ferried him home more times than he could count.

"Is Aramis already there?" he asked when they had broken into the blinding whiteness of a winter morning. London blared at him, all beautiful buildings and black cabs, a cacophony of noise even in the bizarre serenity of the moment.

Trees dotted the roads, little flashes of green amidst the grey. Porthos' fingers reached out to brush the bark as they walked down the street. "Yeah, he's got our rooms ready, said your microwave's still there."

Athos made a noise of surprise, he had thought that it would have been confiscated by now – they weren't supposed to have personal appliances. That hadn't stopped them from creating a tiny kitchenette in his room, mind.

Why they insisted on using his room, he had no idea. Sometimes one of them would want to use something and then just end up lounging on his bed and watching television.

Really, he couldn't even call himself anti-social anymore, not around those two.

Certainly not when he felt himself smiling at the thought of seeing Aramis and of it being the three of them again.

It had been the three of them since the first day of class, when Athos had fallen into a chair next to the most seductive of smiles he had ever seen. If Porthos had been the battering ram to his sensibilities, Aramis was the charismatic king that took up residence in his conquered castle.

The first day of term and far from learning about Geoffrey Chaucer, Athos had learned something about himself that, if discovered, would have him cast even further out of his family circle. He already had painful knowledge of his parents' stance on dishonour and it hadn't ended well for Thomas, the brother he had lost.

Now he had to keep everything a secret so that he could keep the brothers he had gained, no matter how tempting a smile could be.

It hadn't helped that Aramis was a flirt of the first water and it had amused him to no end to realise that Athos didn't blink an eye at his charms. Aramis, ever appreciative of a challenge, had decided that they were going to be spending a  _lot_ of time together after that.

Aramis had claimed – as they walked away from their languages lecture – that anyone who didn't faint under his attention was worthy of it, but although Porthos hadn't fainted, he hadn't exactly been immune, either.

Athos remembered interest sparking in Porthos' gaze when Aramis had recognised him in their dorms that night, sauntering over with so much sway in his step that it should have been illegal.

Athos had practiced for years to perfect a poker face, a polite smile, a look of boredom. Confronted with one of Aramis' winks, he'd had to call upon every trick he knew to keep his expression unimpressed. Porthos, however, had let his eyes drift from the perfect curls on Aramis' head to the Cuban heel boots that he had spent a fortune on.

But then, Porthos had the freedom to do that.

Neither of them had any idea that desire had kicked him so very hard in the gut when they had started conversing in tones just a mile past flirtatious.

Where Porthos was muscled and broad, Aramis was lean and slender, and they both had smiles that rivalled the sunshine. They had also settled into a solid friendship tempered with lewd jokes and harmless teasing, and dragged Athos along with them.

They had entered his life quite without his say, and they had no intention of leaving.

It might have just been the best thing that had ever happened to him, which was the sole reason he treated their friendship with the reverence Aramis saved for church.

Athos still didn't quite understand it, but they wanted to spend time with him just for being himself.

How could he ever risk that by acting on emotions he didn't even understand, let alone want?

No, he would suffer in silence, revel in their presence, savour the memories, and - when he was alone - play every single sweet smile, soft word, and warm touch, over in his head.

It was safest that way, for all of them.

They were his friends, and that's all they could ever be.

A stone arch passed overhead and then he and Porthos were on the campus proper. The greenery was hidden under a layer of hoarfrost but the weak sunlight made everything glitter brilliantly.

Something coiled and forcefully neutral in Athos' chest finally unwound, and he took a deep, relaxed breath for the first time in months.

"Good to be back?" Porthos asked with a grin, but there was a streak of fond concern there, too.

"You have no idea," he murmured, and let the rightness of this life wash over him. It was completed when Porthos' warm arm hooked around his shoulders, completely uncaring of the instinctive scowl Athos gave for accosting him – because Porthos knew he needed it.

It was perfected when Porthos herded him towards their dorm building and the front door slammed open, a stream of ecstatic Spanish sailing forth.

Suddenly, there were dark curls in Athos' face and the smell of cinnamon – tart and sweet – in his nose. Aramis had ignored his grunt of surprise and thrown himself at them, fitting between he and Porthos perfectly.

Athos felt whole again, as if the two missing pieces to his life's puzzle had slotted back into place.

"Okay, term can begin now," Aramis said, his smile so delighted that Athos couldn't help but laugh. It came straight from his stomach, affectionate and warm and ridiculous.

Porthos chuckled and curled his other arm over Aramis' shoulders, pulling them in for a quick, tight, impromptu hug. It was the three of them again, against the world, and the wall around Athos' heart could finally fall.

He allowed himself this, the sweet torture, and sighed contentedly.

Life was good, sometimes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a Rat Pack song you love, a Latin phrase you adore? Let me know in a comment, or, feel free to pop by my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The Underground, London's veins, and a tannoy is a loudspeaker. Criminal psychology because why not, it may change.


	2. Fortiter in Re, Suaviter in Modo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firm in action, gentle in manner.

> Smile, darn ya, smile,  
>  You know this great world is a good world after all.  
>  Smile, darn ya, smile,  
>  And right away watch Lady Luck pay you a call.  
>  Things are never black as they are painted,  
>  Time for you and joy to get acquainted,  
>  So make life worthwhile.  
>  Come on and smile, darn ya, smile.
> 
> \- Sammy Davis Jr, ' _Smile, Darn Ya, Smile_ '

Athos stared balefully at the copious bags and boxes that now littered his room. The delivery people had just arrived with his luggage and he was in no mood to unpack. This was his life, able to be squared away, with secrets hidden beneath unassuming cardboard.

It was cluttered, but without Aramis and Porthos in his space, it felt bizarrely empty.

He lifted his head hopefully when he heard a familiar light step in the hallway, and held back his smile when Aramis stopped in the doorway with his mouth agape.

"Why do you bring so much stuff?" Aramis asked in wonder, stepping gingerly through the maze that Athos' room had become.

"I don't pack it," he explained with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's whatever the staff think I need."

Aramis raised an eyebrow but, thankfully, didn't delve back into that can of worms. It lingered there, on the windowsill, but it had been opened in their first year and it suited them all to ignore it.

"They think you need a suit?" Aramis asked dubiously, holding the bag up and unzipping it carefully. "A  _three-piece_ suit?"

Athos made a noise of disgust, but was cut off when Aramis suddenly stepped forward and held the suit against him. Aramis' expression changed, became intensely considering, and his gaze jumped to meet Athos' for the briefest of moments before darting away again.

"I'd kill for a tailored suit," Aramis said instead, the calm words belying the way he blinked a few times as if he was flustered.

Athos frowned, confused, but followed suit and replied idly, "Take it, we're of a similar size."

Aramis grinned then and shot him a wry look. "Please, there are far better things I would raid your cupboard for." He paused, and clarified, "Well, use your credit card for, I refuse to wear that much black."

"You don't wear  _any_ black."

Aramis hummed in agreement as he laid the suit bag down carefully and rummaged through another box. "It's too sombre."

"And you are anything but?" Athos replied automatically, and then mentally smacked himself when he heard his voice lower at the sight of Aramis bending over to reach for something.

_Idiot._

"Was that a compliment?" Aramis asked cheekily, flashing him a smile, which dropped when he pulled out five identical pairs of jeans. "Armani, Athos, isn't the only brand out there."

Grateful for the change of subject and that Aramis hadn't noticed how Athos had abruptly sat down on the nearest object, which turned out to be another box of what was probably more Armani, he defended, "I don't like change."

"What you don't like,  _mon cher,_ could fill a whole street of warehouses."

It was hearing his own language on Aramis' tongue that finally roused the small campfire burning in Athos' stomach into an inferno. Aramis was always dropping into other languages – that was his area of study after all – but he only ever used French when he was being affectionate, and Athos secretly adored it.

At any other time, hearing French meant that he was in a bad place, full of spite and nastiness; hearing it in Aramis' silky tones only ever made Athos' stomach clench in desire, not detestation.

Then again, Aramis could make anything sound gorgeous, and the effortless way he switched dialects was ridiculously attractive.

Especially when he did it to tease Porthos, knowing that their friend couldn't understand and Athos could.

Of course, Aramis would switch to Spanish when he was furious – and that should have been annoying, not sexy enough that Athos wanted to hold him close and kiss the anger away.

He blanked his mind and choked on a breath.

" _Change_  is abstract, it doesn't take up space," he corrected habitually and managed a smirk at Aramis' disdainful glance.

" _Oui, oui, Monsieur Anglais,_ " Aramis muttered, managing to make it sound seductive even though he was grumbling, in French.

The words said in a perfect accent whispered through the air and caressed Athos' skin, like a soft breeze on a hot summer's day, or a gentle wave on a smooth bed of sand, or a brush of beard against his cheek.

 _Fuck_ , he shouldn't have come back.

The realisation was like a sickening pit in his stomach, and it only confirmed what his parents had told him repeatedly all summer.  _England is of no benefit to you,_ they had declared disappointedly.

_You will learn bad habits._

Bad habits weren't the half of it.

How long had it taken for his mental walls to fall? And not the ones he put up to keep their warmth in, but to keep their warmth  _out._  The different warmth, the one that bubbled like molten lava in his stomach and slicked languorously through his veins when one of them smiled.

What was  _wrong_ with him?

They were his best friends and he couldn't risk that, and that was before he even contemplated the repellent betrayal of finding them  _both_ attractive.

What did he think this was, some sort of fantasy story?

Life could never be that easy.

Aramis had found a hat – a beret of all things, as if Athos wanted to look more like a walking French stereotype – and was posing with it in front of the mirror. It sat perfectly on his curls, adding a sense of Parisian charm to his crisp, white shirt.

A shirt that could have only had half the buttons done up, exposing a sinful amount of tan chest and a sprinkling of dark hair that Athos knew with damning clarity trailed straight down into his tight navy jeans.

"I'm, ah, going out for a bit," Athos ground out, forcing his gaze away from the sinuous curve of Aramis' body.

"I'm not unpacking for you," Aramis said distractedly, offering him a chance to escape. He took it, and he was halfway down the hallway when he heard, "We need milk!"

What Athos needed was a shower, a cold one.

Preferably of Arctic temperatures.

"Milk!" Porthos yelled.

And milk.

 

* * *

 

There was something about the bitter bite of Britain's air that always seemed to clear Athos' head. It nipped with a chill that made his skin prickle, but he drew it in anyway, his lungs burning with each inhaled breath.

He savoured the pain, needing it to drive away the thoughts of Aramis turning this way and that in front of his mirror, pouting at himself and winking at Athos when he caught him looking.

 _Merde_. He was so screwed.

He needed a distraction, and it had to be a good one. The college newspaper that he was editor of was time-consuming, but he shared most of his duties with Aramis and Porthos anyway, and it wasn't like he wanted to get away from them.

That was the problem.

Even walking away from their rooms felt strange so soon after seeing them; Athos felt tugged in twain, as if his brain was working in contrast to his body.

That was the other problem.

He reasoned that everyone had moments where their heart ruled their head, but around those two he suffered more from his head being ruled by something that diverted his blood far too often.

It hadn't always been this way; he'd never even looked at men like that before coming here. If this was a bad habit, he'd fucking picked it, and he couldn't drop it, no matter how much he tried.

And he had  _tried._

Perhaps, once term had properly started, he would settle back into the rhythm of work and study. He could even try kindling some old flames, the ones he told himself he still fancied. Hell, if it distracted him, he'd consider hooking up with—

Athos tried to neatly sidestep a buzzing storm of a boy with a bowed head who wasn't looking where he was going, but they ignored him and ploughed into his shoulder regardless.

"Excuse you," Athos murmured dryly, glad that he had at least managed to drop the habit of apologising mechanically. Porthos had teased him mercilessly for that when he had first arrived, and found it endlessly amusing when Athos defended his politeness as common courtesy.

Porthos was a bump-and-glare type, and Aramis' smile managed to make people apologise to him _._

It was a skill that Athos envied.

"What did you say?" the boy asked, his head flicking up and something startlingly wrathful in his dark eyes, eyes framed by long hair that flicked around his thin cheeks. He had the naturally tanned skin of an Italian and the music of it in his voice, even if it was clipped at the moment.

"I believe you miss-stepped."

The boy's frown deepened into one of angry confusion, as if he couldn't tell whether Athos was mocking him or not. It made him look even younger than he was – and he was probably a first year if his over-stuffed rucksack was any indication.

Evidently, he didn't appreciate Athos' raised eyebrow – the one that Aramis said he normally deserved a punch for, for looking so superior – and said angrily, "Get out of my way."

Athos lifted his chin, managing to look down his nose despite them being of a similar height – it was one of his many talents. "There's no need to be rude."

"There's no need to be an arsehole, fuck off."

"Did your father not teach you any manners?" he sneered at the boy, and didn't like how venomous it sounded.

He sounded like his own father.

The boy's eyelids flickered and then he glared furiously at Athos, rage a thick haze that seemed to surround them both. There was a snarl of what sounded like pain, and then Athos automatically took a step back when the boy lunged for him.

Years' worth of training responded – along with his ire – when the boy's fist whistled an inch from his nose. Athos reached out for it and pulled past his hip, sending the boy sprawling onto the tarmac.

Athos winced, he hadn't thought the boy that incapable, it should have only stumbled him. Instead, the boy now had sore palms and scuffs in jeans that looked a little large on his skinny form, as if he had lost weight unexpectedly.

Not even the first day of term and already fighting on campus, wonderful. Athos was lucky that they were on one of the paths leading around the buildings, hidden from the windows by the chilled trees.

If you could call that  _luck._

Athos sighed and held a hand out to the stunned boy. "You surprised me, I apolo—”

Fingers yanked Athos' wrist but his braced stance meant that he merely swayed, his weight instinctively shifting to his front foot as muscle memory kicked in. "Damn it, stop—”

The boy sprang upwards, still holding Athos' arm in one hand, and smacked him across the cheek with the other. A knuckle caught Athos' jawbone and stung something fierce. Blinking against the pain, he snarled, " _Petit parvenu, arrête!_ Stop!"

A stream of angry Italian answered him, and when Athos simply blinked, the boy presumably translated and spat, "You have no right to speak of my father!"

Athos' earlier words floated through his head as he rubbed his jaw and muttered, "It's a saying. I meant no disrespect— well, yes, I did, but—”

Athos jerked backwards again when the boy swung once more, leaving himself open for Athos to simply reach in and push his chest.

It was at the exact moment that the boy landed flat on his back that Aramis and Porthos appeared around the corner, their conversation cutting short when they realised what they were looking at.

"Athos!" Aramis cried, completely scandalised, and completely blaming him without any evidence – honestly, it was if he got into fights every day of the week.

And he didn't.

That was Porthos' role.

"Everythin' alright?" Porthos asked lowly, a threat clear in his tone and the frown he levelled at the downed boy. Porthos, at least, took his side, but then that might just be because he felt like a scrap.

"Fine," Athos growled, and rolled his eyes when Aramis jumped into 'doctor' mode and ignored him to fall at the boy's side. When Aramis had first volunteered at the Red Cross for first aid lessons, Athos had been grudgingly pleased when he'd later required some stitches for a cut without needing to go to the hospital.

Of course, he should have expected that the same generous care would be extended to  _everyone_.

"Are you alright, did you hit your head?" Aramis' voice was pitched soothingly, and although the boy had stiffened at his quick approach, no one could withstand Aramis' tender concern.

"I'm fine," the boy said with all the wounded pride of youth, but it was lacking the bite of before.

"He punched  _me,_ I feel I should add," Athos supplied, apparently to no one because Aramis was still ignoring him.

The boy threw him a glare over Aramis' slender shoulder that should probably have sent Athos cringing to the floor. Instead, he merely responded with a look of nonchalance.

Porthos saw it and chuckled quietly, "You're not helpin' matters."

" _Vaffanculo, stronzo!"_ the boy spat at him, but his eyes widened when Aramis replied in amused – and perfect – Italian.

Aramis was useful to have around – not that they locked horns with different dialects often, but Aramis' friendly nature and charming smile could normally defuse any situation.

This one included, apparently, because the pair were now talking in rapid back-and-forth Italian, the boy gesturing at Athos occasionally. There were enough similarities in the Romance languages that Athos could pick out how he was being painted as the villain of the piece.

"Aramis," Athos called tiredly, and was shocked into silence when Aramis sent him a truly quelling glance.

Porthos settled at Athos' side and murmured, "You've done it now."

"I don't even know what it was that I did," Athos replied exasperatedly, and noted with some discomfort that the boy's voice had risen in pitch and started to crack. " _Putain_ , please don't say he's going to cry."

Aramis turned on him with a hissed, "Athos, shut up."

Athos had to take a step back and bumped into Porthos' chest as his friend whistled in amazement. Athos had to agree, he wasn't sure Aramis had  _ever_ spoken to him like that, certainly not without a guilty apology afterwards.

What the ever-loving fuck was going on?

Porthos' hand rested on his shoulder, a warm weight that served to ground him. "Know I took the piss before, but I think you'd better start grovellin'."

Athos hadn't grovelled a day in his life, not even when his parents had threatened to strangle his funds whilst he was in England. He didn't  _do_ grovelling, he had far too much pride—

The boy took a shuddering breath as he resolutely looked at the floor, and Athos noticed a distinct glittering on his long eyelashes.

Oh.

With a sigh, Athos walked to Aramis' side and sat on his haunches, guilt an overpowering thing in his chest. "I'm sorry if I offended you, I truly am."

Aramis was a furious presence at his side, refusing to say anything except a quiet, "You have no tact, Athos."

Athos glanced at Aramis in surprise. No tact? He had the most tact of all of them, it was borne of far too many hours rubbing elbows with the elite and always having to watch what he said, what he felt, what he wanted.

Or maybe it was lying he was good at.

Athos opened his mouth to question this new angle of attack, and that was when he noticed the red rims around the boy's eyes, the black band of mourning on his arm, the brand-new cross around his neck, and remembered the agonised pronunciation of 'father'.

Athos could have slapped himself.

No wonder Aramis was furious with him. The boy was grieving for his father and Athos had, albeit without realising, mocked his father's memory and picked a fight.

Sympathy swept through him, heartfelt and terrible. He lifted his hand to clasp the boy's shoulder, offering him the same comfort that Porthos had given him. "My deepest apologies, I didn't realise."

"I said it's fine," the boy choked out, the anger trying to rouse but just leaving his voice hoarse and infinitely sad.

Aramis made a helpless, consoling noise, and the boy let himself be tugged upwards into Aramis' arms for a hug. A wet breath wracked his thin frame as Aramis held him tight.

Athos stood and looked back to see Porthos' face twisted in a wince of sympathy, but there was a fond smile there, too, as he watched Aramis' give comfort in the best way he knew. Hugs, Athos had learned, could fix so many ills that nothing else could.

Aramis and Porthos' hugs especially.

The boy quieted in Aramis' affectionate hold, taking the tactile comfort on offer, and Athos mirrored Porthos' small smile at the sight.

Aramis truly was a marvel.

"Please," Athos murmured, "let me make it up to you." The boy tried to break from Aramis' grip to deny him, but Athos continued swiftly, "Even if it's just a drink, I owe you that much."

"You shouldn't be alone," Aramis reminded softly, keeping his hands where they were, as if prepared to drag the boy into another hug at a moment's notice – and he probably was.

Porthos joined them, his grin toned down to a respectable level as he added encouragingly, "C'mon, say yeah. Aramis won't take no for an answer, anyway."

The boy swallowed, looking between them a little vulnerably, but a tiny smile formed when Aramis nodded gravely. His gaze lit on Athos last, who held out his hand in his own brand of greeting, an apology and acceptance in one.

Athos knew what it was like to be alone, and who was he to deny the boy of Aramis' friendliness?

The boy's grip was firm, his nod jerky but growing in confidence. "D'Artagnan."

Athos nodded, pointing at them each in turn. "Athos, Aramis, Porthos."

Porthos clapped d'Artagnan companionably on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Musketeers College, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan's smile was steady. "It's good to be here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, Athos, the Deadpool of the Musketeers world for almost breaking the fourth wall with his references to fantasy stories. Comment, or catch me on my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Did you know that the legal drinking age is 18 in Britain? Which means, if you want it, there could be adorable, tipsy Puppy at some point.


	3. Defendit Numerus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is safety in numbers.

> How would you like to be,  
>  Down by the Seine with me?  
>  Oh, what I'd give for a moment or two,  
>  Under the bridges of Paris with you.
> 
> Darling, I'd hold you tight,  
>  Far from the eyes of night,  
>  Under the bridges of Paris with you.  
>  I'd make your dreams come true.
> 
> \- Dean Martin, _'Under the Bridges of Paris'_

Athos held his breath when Aramis' arm bumped warmly against his, the four of them walking two-by-two under the frosted trees. The weather seemed to be waiting for something, too, a looming weight of white clouds that pushed just as insistently as Aramis did when he wanted something.

He and Aramis fell back slightly as Porthos started talking to d'Artagnan about some football game on last night – Porthos refused to believe that sports weren't an essential part of everyone's lives, and the three of them had spent far too many hours arguing over what game they would watch.

Porthos would turn on the football, only for the remote to be snatched from his hand by Aramis, who would switch the channel and swoon over the rugby ("Real men, Porthos, like you," he would simper to get Porthos to grin). It was up to Athos to either pick one – whichever one where France were playing – or put something else on altogether.

They had gotten far too good at quiz shows last year, and Athos fully intended to keep their winners title at the student union this semester.

D'Artagnan's face lit up when he realised that he had found a fellow football enthusiast in Porthos, and Athos had to hide a smile when the pair of them immediately started bickering good-naturedly over teams.

"Gunners all the way, mate, but England'll kick your ass any day of the week, in any league."

D'Artagnan came into his own in his friendly – if a little vitriolic – reply, and Porthos held his hands up in acknowledgement of England's pitiful progress in the World Cup. It was all so much enthusiastic noise to Athos, who had little to no love for the sport, but at least the boy was smiling now.

Aramis glanced at him a little uncertainly, and when Athos raised an eyebrow to prompt him to speak, Aramis darted closer, his presence a warmth along Athos' arm that shouldn't have been so distracting.

Except that Aramis was distraction wrapped in tempting tanned flesh and, damn it, Athos needed to keep it together, it was the first day back for fuck's sake,  _not now._

"Maybe you have  _some_  tact," Aramis whispered in his ear. It caused a little tingle along Athos' spine even as he felt a weight lift from his chest at Aramis' smile. Aramis was quick to anger and quick to forgive, and Athos wasn't sure he could ever hold a grudge against that staggering smile.

"Is that an apology for being cruel to me?"

"I wasn't being  _cruel;_ I was simply worried for d'Artagnan's sake."

"Ah, yes, because I am known for kicking puppies and starting fights, is that it?"

Aramis tried to give him an unimpressed look but it was ruined by the amusement that danced in his brown eyes. "Just because sarcasm suits you very well,  _mon cher,_ doesn't mean you should engage in it."

If Athos had been Porthos in this moment, he would have hooked an arm around Aramis' shoulder and dragged him closer, brushing a kiss on his hair and saying something complimentary about Aramis' soothing skills.

But he wasn't Porthos, and he couldn't be that tactile without doing something stupid, and so he merely inclined his head and murmured, "Apology accepted."

Aramis beamed at him, his delight at being forgiven ever so obvious. Aramis hated confrontation – it was what made him practice his sneaking about until he could sleep around London without being caught.

Of course, Aramis' practicing must have gotten interrupted by something else, because Athos wasn't sure how often he had barred their dorm door from some irate boyfriend who was furiously looking for "that little flirt".

Afterwards, threat averted by Athos' iciest expression, he would turn to reprimand the most generous lover around, but would fall short upon seeing Aramis' tousled curls or the line of suck marks up his neck. Not to mention the grateful smile.

That one was the killer.

That, and the tired yawn that Aramis would give, all arched back and sleepy smile, and the innocuous invitation for a nap.

Right, a nap, because  _napping_ was what Athos was always in the mood for after seeing Aramis bathed in afterglow.

It was getting harder and harder – pun intended – to decline that tantalising offer, but he couldn't bear the look of shocked betrayal that he knew Aramis would give him if he realised what Athos was thinking whenever Aramis curled up next to him.

What he was thinking whenever Aramis did  _anything_  near him.

Athos was meant to be his friend _,_ he was  _safe,_ he and Porthos were the ones Aramis came home to, and that in itself was a gift.

It was better this way, he had lost too much to risk losing them, too.

"Heads up, Athos, d'Artagnan's taking English, too," Porthos called.

"Language or literature?" he asked automatically, and sensed the _'be gentle'_ look that Aramis was giving him in the form of a frown.

"Literature," d'Artagnan replied, still eyeing Athos a little warily – wonderful, even Porthos got on the boy's good side before he did.

"Amateur—” he was cut off mid-word by Aramis' elbow in his ribs and hastily amended, "Amazing. Which is your favourite, ah, Shakespeare play?"

Dreadful question, damn Aramis for unsteadying him.

D'Artagnan glanced between them, evidently having seen Aramis assault him. "Er, _'Taming of the Shrew'_?"

"If I be waspish, best beware my sting," Athos quoted, and ignored Porthos and Aramis' chuckles.

D'Artagnan did not ignore them, and with the attitude of a boy trying to win favour, nibbled his lip and answered with a modified quote, "Aramis' remedy is to pluck it out?"

There was a beat of silence, and then Porthos and Aramis collapsed against each other in peals of laughter. Athos did  _not_ feel the corner of his lip tugging upwards into a rueful smile, nor did he find d'Artagnan's shy smile at all endearing.

"How fortunate for you that I  _am_ a gentleman," he said instead, pinning the boy with his stare.

"Nah," Porthos chuckled, "he's a wasp; stinger, talons, an' teeth."

Aramis' laugh died to be replaced with horror. "Wasps have teeth?"

"You ever seen a tarantula hawk?" Porthos asked, eyes glittering with glee at Aramis' terrified denial. "Oh, you won't like 'em, big as your thumb."

"Athos?" Aramis asked uncertainly, knowing him to be the voice of reason whenever Porthos' tricks got to him.

"They don't sting humans," he placated, and waited for Aramis to turn aggrieved eyes on Porthos before adding, "Normally."

"Athos!" Aramis cried in startled horror and shoved him on the arm.

Porthos' laugh was loud and delighted, "I owe you a drink, mate."

Aramis pouted petulantly at them both until Athos held a hand over his heart. " _Je suis desolé_."

Aramis always perked up when Athos used French, or maybe it was the act of gallantry, he wasn't sure. Either way, it was the easiest way to make the grumbling turn into a grin, and Aramis was always particularly attentive to him, afterwards.

Not that Athos was seeking it out, and even if he was, it was only because anything was preferable to seeing Aramis in a mood – even if his pout was stupidly loveable.

" _Je te pardonne,_ " Aramis replied happily, and smoothed the wrinkle he had made in Athos' shirt in forgiveness, hand resting overlong against his arm so that it was as if Athos was leading him to dinner or a dance.

Ballroom dances were not quite Aramis' style, even if that image was an interesting one.

With a snort of amusement, Athos looked up and Porthos' eyes met his. There was some strange sort of intensity there, until Porthos cleared his throat and smacked a friendly palm on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

The boy did well not to stumble, really.

"So, you stayin' on campus?"

"Yeah, but, um," d'Artagnan trailed off awkwardly, and Aramis immediately swooped in.

"You don't know which dorm you're in?"

D'Artagnan shook his head sheepishly. "It's all been a bit hectic."

"Of course," Aramis agreed gently, and then his palm replaced Porthos' on the boy's shoulder. "No matter, we happen to be good friends with the student rep of accommodations."

"Constance got that gig?" Porthos asked with a grimace. "Only she would sign up for that."

"Her organisation skills are without parallel," Athos remarked, and Porthos shrugged in agreement. "It's why she makes a fantastic manager for the paper."

D'Artagnan looked up in interest so Athos inclined his head at Aramis' silent request to tell all. A foolish thing to do. Athos realised his mistake immediately when d'Artagnan lit up and Aramis smiled like a mother hen that had found diversion for its wayward chick.

"We three are on the college's newspaper," Aramis stated proudly.

"It's a magazine," Porthos claimed.

"It's a  _newspaper,_ " Athos insisted, refusing to kowtow to anything less than a tabloid – and if he could, he would make it a broadsheet.

" _Anyway,_ " Aramis continued exasperatedly, having heard this argument many times before, "we all write articles, but we have official roles, as well. Athos is our editor, I do layout, Porthos does photos – he has a fantastic trigger finger."

Porthos chuckled quietly at their private joke. "You get one after livin' in London for so long."

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis hopefully, a question evident on his face.

"Well, we do have a space," Aramis said it to Athos, who would have declined even against Aramis' most pleading look – or, at least, he would have tried to.

Fortunately for his dignity though, he remembered something. They were third years now.

"Yes, we do, as it happens." Athos let his irritation show so that d'Artagnan didn't think he was being given a pity assignment. "We need a first year's column, experiences, study tactics, that sort of thing."

"You can write your own things, too, as long as they're approved," Aramis added encouragingly.

D'Artagnan's interest was sorely piqued; Athos could see his mind whirring as he thought of ideas. "Approved by who?"

"Me," Athos said simply, and decided not to tug him on the _'whom'_ mistake, "and Treville - as Dean of the Musketeers College, he gets a draft before it's published."

Porthos snorted, "Yeah, 'cept he trusts you enough not to bother most of the time. He only wants to check we ain't bad-mouthin' the Guards College."

Aramis nodded sagely at d'Artagnan's confusion. "There's a long-standing feud between our Dean and theirs, apparently Richelieu never took kindly to the university splitting into colleges."

"That is the understatement of the century," Athos drawled, "Richelieu has something of a vendetta against us."

"That's 'cause we're better than them," Porthos said proudly, "and their newspaper sucks."

"That's true, it does," Aramis agreed with a sparkling grin sent Athos' way. "So, d'Artagnan, would you like to join our little committee?"

"Sure! I mean, if that's okay?" D'Artagnan wisely looked to him for his approval, and Athos found that it was surprisingly difficult to deny him.

It wasn't Aramis' sticky-sweet charm, or Porthos' bowl-over enthusiasm, but something remarkably… Puppyish.

"Of course," he found himself saying, and smirked when three smiles were aimed his way.

The benefit for being known as an insular – if Aramis was to be believed – grump, was that whenever he deigned to do something pleasant, he was rewarded.

Pavlov's dogs had nothing on him, he mused when Porthos slung an arm about his neck.

"Ah, my three favourite nuisances," Constance's voice rang from amidst a cacophony of desks and stalls, each marked out with placards in her neat handwriting. "And look, you've started recruiting before term's even started."

They wound their way through confused first years and Constance's vain attempts at a queue, pushing to the front without a care. Constance opened her mouth to scold them, frowning when Athos simply stared at one indignant youngster to quiet him.

"Constance, my dear," Aramis called charmingly, "will you find our friend his dorm? He's lost."

D'Artagnan, having been safely ushered through his year mates, blushed furiously under Constance's attentive regard. "I'm not  _lost._ "

"Then, where are we?" Athos asked wryly.

D'Artagnan's gaze darted about, trying to find some frame of reference, but he was saved by Constance giving Athos the evil eye. "That's quite enough."

Porthos grinned at him when Athos inclined his head in acceptance, his expression clearly saying, _'Thumb, you're under it.'_

Athos surreptitiously rubbed two fingers against his cheek in crude response.

Constance was oblivious to this, her nose buried in her iPad as she searched for d'Artagnan's name. Aramis slid him a sly glance – which Athos immediately knew meant that he was up to something.

" _Charles_ d'Artagnan?" Aramis murmured, "Why, that's almost as posh as Olivi—”

"Aramis," Athos warned lowly, and took a steadying breath when Aramis' eyes lidded in response.

Aramis made no secret of his tastes, and judging from his preference in lovers – if they were male, commanding and confident, or female, sure and spirited – telling Aramis what to do was less of an order and more of an enticement.

It didn't mean anything, it was harmless; Aramis often airily explained that his brain had long taken residence elsewhere in his body and that his head was full of air.

It didn't help Athos' blood pressure when Aramis amped his teasing up to full throttle just to see if he could make Athos twitch, determined to break past Athos' staid – and straight, he would argue that until the cows came home – barriers.

Oh, how little Aramis knew.

How little they  _all_ knew, and he was including himself in that, lately.

Constance looked up triumphantly, her task finished. "He's with you three, as it happens, in The Garrison."

"Best dorm around," Porthos supplied, "and that's even if we weren't there."

"We're the closest to the Student Union," Aramis explained. "It's called The Market, by the way, you'll get used to the names."

"There's a distinct theme," Constance laughed, and then smiled at d'Artagnan. "Come find me if you need anything and these three are being useless."

They bristled as they were expected to, but d'Artagnan only had eyes for Constance, his smile absurdly shy. "Where are you?"

It was almost enough to make Athos laugh. D'Artagnan was truly playing up to that puppy charm, and if Constance's smile was anything to go by, it might actually be working.

Of course, she was probably looking at the boy as if he were her next project.

Constance pointed over their shoulders. "Across campus, The Forge, it's part of the textiles department."

D'Artagnan cocked his head to the side, like a spaniel on the scent. "You're studying textiles?"

Constance laughed and tugged at a once-frayed hem on Porthos' shirt. "Yes, who do you think patches Porthos up? Aside from Aramis, of course."

Aramis gave her a pleased bow and tapped a faded line on Porthos' arm for d'Artagnan to see. "My stitches are of the blood and bone variety, Constance is the whizz on the sewing machine."

"One of us had to be," she teased, and Aramis neatened Porthos' shirt cuff with a grimace.

"If we can all just forget  _that_ incident."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos when he snorted, but he gestured to Porthos who was practically fidgeting with glee to tell the story. "Aramis was convinced he was the next Gucci—”

"—Ralph Lauren, Porthos, please," Aramis insisted dramatically.

Porthos chuckled and held a hand over Aramis' mouth. "Whatever, all he ended up bein' was shit. He tried to sew a shirt an' ended up makin' three arm holes." Aramis made an affronted noise and started to struggle, but settled when Porthos grinned and held him against his chest. "He spent a week insistin' that he  _meant_ to do that."

Aramis glared when Athos couldn't hold back his chuckle, "He even wore it out one night, but admitted defeat when he realised he couldn't pull with one sleeve flapping uselessly from his waist."

Constance held the bridge of her nose. "It was certainly a trend that didn't catch on."

"Funny that," Porthos rumbled through a laugh, and let Aramis go only to rest his chin on Aramis' shoulder.

"You just don't have my vision," Aramis muttered, surprisingly quiescent after all of that, but smiled when d'Artagnan tried not to laugh with the rest of them.

The buzz of Constance's phone interrupted them and she sighed, "I've got to go, first day's always mayhem. Meet tomorrow for the paper?"

"Until then," Athos replied just as he noticed Aramis' smile taking a second too long to appear. When they had wandered on, herding d'Artagnan to The Garrison, he asked, "Why didn't you invite her for dinner?"

Constance occasionally joined them in whatever capacity they had their evening meal, whether it was at a sedate time because one of them had missed lunch, or a midnight snack sprawled over a sofa with Pot Noodle containers littering the floor.

Aramis glowered at him. "Have you not been on Facebook? She has a new boyfriend."

If Athos hadn't been so attuned to  _real life_  rather than virtual life, he would have missed the slight sagging of d'Artagnan's shoulders.

Ah, youth.

Athos gave Aramis a sceptical look. "I wouldn't even  _have_  a Facebook if it wasn't for you using my email address and spending an evening tagging me in far too many photos."

"Hey, they were  _my_ photos, and you were in them, so I tagged you. You couldn't have an empty profile, Athos."

Porthos grinned. "What did you make his password again?"

Athos rolled his eyes and refused to say anything, but d'Artagnan's sagged shoulders had perked up as he looked to Aramis, who, naturally, obliged. " _Je suis un_ moody motherfucker."

"He thinks he's funny," Athos told d'Artagnan, who was biting his lip for some reason.

Aramis' laugh was bordering on infectious, but Athos refused to give into it, even when his friend asked between gasps, "Did you ever even change it?"

"It was easy to remember after you and Porthos brought it up every single day for a month."

"That's because it was damn funny," Porthos chuckled, not at all cowed by his glare.

D'Artagnan caught Athos' eye and then he burst into laughter. "I'm sorry, Athos, but that is pretty funny."

Athos sniffed haughtily, even though he was pleased to see the boy smile. Melancholy was too heart-breaking on his young face, and it had obviously affected all three of them as they had no plans to send him away any time soon.

Make that mother  _hens_ , he thought idly.

" _Anyway,_ " Athos growled at a beaming Aramis, "Constance. Anyone we know?"

Aramis' glower returned and deepened, turning his already sensual features more attractive with an undercurrent of darkness. His natural light still seemed to gleam through, like an angel that had fallen momentarily to wreak righteous fury on Constance's new boyfriend before ascending to the heavens again.

Athos coughed and tried to listen to what his very good and really-shouldn't-be-so-attractive friend was saying.

"He's a Guard."

"What?!" That was Porthos, exclaiming in outrage, voicing the noise Athos wanted to make, and d'Artagnan looked between them in confusion.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"The Guards' are our sworn enemies," Aramis said theatrically, "it goes beyond the newspaper, we  _all_ despise them."

D'Artagnan, being the clever individual that he was turning out to be, looked to Athos for an explanation – he was starting to see the benefits of having the boy around, at least someone appreciated him.

"It's worse than the gossip goes, really," Athos clarified. "Everyone thinks it's just a friendly rivalry, as we're all part of the same university, but the Guards College is… well, Aramis put it best."

Aramis gave him a pleased smile and Athos had to struggle not to return it, lest he grin outrageously at seeing Aramis' face light up in satisfaction.

"Why is she dating him then?"

They looked to Aramis, who was ever with his ear to the ground for information.

"I don't know," Aramis said bitterly, "his profile was private, maybe he's the son of a giant design company or something."

"As if Constance is that mercurial," Athos chided, and added to d'Artagnan, "Constance thinks the colleges' feud is ridiculous, as do a few other people, actually."

"Please," Porthos scoffed, "the only reason Louis wants us to be best mates is 'cause he wants to bang Anne."

"Who doesn't?" Aramis said wistfully, and enlightened a confused d'Artagnan, "Anne is the Head Girl at Guards, and beautiful, and Louis' a fool if he thinks he stands a chance."

Porthos chuckled at Aramis' scorn. "Aramis has been pinin' for her since we bumped into her an' Louis last year."

"Aramis pines for everyone," Athos clarified, and d'Artagnan grinned when Aramis flipped him the finger.

"I have a romantic's heart, forgive me if it beats out of turn," Aramis remarked with nonchalant haughtiness, and ignored Porthos' bawdy 'ooh!'.

D'Artagnan was quietly contemplative as Aramis and Porthos squabbled over what constituted 'romance' and whether so many notches on a bedpost that it turned to sawdust could really be considered romantic.

"Do you have an Agony Aunt column on the paper?" d'Artagnan asked, and met their three nods. "I bet that's what Constance does."

Athos shrugged. "Nobody knows who that is, but we've all written to them at some point, so we're fairly certain that it's an outsider." A little spark of anger flared at still not knowing who it was. It was  _his_ paper, and he didn't like not knowing something.

His letters had started out probing, trying to whittle down the suspects, but after a time they had become… conversational.

Whoever they were, he might be in a lot of trouble if they ever figured his pseudonym out and decided to spill the beans. Athos had to hope that Treville kept them on a tight leash, as he was the only one who knew the writer's true identity.

"But whether it is her or not," Athos continued past the grip of fear around his heart, "she also does our Student Living articles. Food, clubs, life hacks, et cetera."

Porthos' eyes gleamed in interest. "Speakin' of that, saw the draft of this week's paper, there's a new bar down the road?"

Aramis swiped open his phone to look at the email Constance had sent them all that morning for Monday's edition. "The Bastille?"

Athos deliberately cleared his throat. "I, for one, think we should make it our new port of call."

Aramis smirked at him. "That's because it's French-owned and you want to make patriotic remarks all night."

Athos' lip twitched but he tried to keep his tone serious and his words tempting, "They have a bar-crawl, you know? It goes all around the street."

Porthos rubbed his hands together, easily persuaded. "Awesome." He cast a mischievous glance at Aramis. "We'll jus' make it out of the front door an' then we'll 'ave to carry Aramis the rest of the way."

Aramis was a notoriously terrible drunk. It wasn't that he was a  _bad_ drunk, the complete opposite actually, Aramis was the cuddliest bastard the world had ever seen – and that was before the alcohol.

Aramis was a lightweight.

Aramis was giving Porthos dirty looks and then noticed that Athos couldn't quite hide his smile. Aramis' eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wait, what's this walkabout called?"

"The Seine."

The three of them groaned at the terrible pun and Athos let his laughter bubble through him, happy to allow Aramis to push him into Porthos for a hug masquerading as a growl.

A new bar, good friends, and the college newspaper, what more did he need?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fencing, Athos, obviously; fencing is obviously what you need. For the record, yes, I really am being that cliché with the building names, and yes, Constance is totally taking a tailor's subject - she has a role to play with her fabric wizardry.
> 
> An Agony Aunt is an advice column, Pavlov's dogs refer to learned conditioning, football refers to English football where the "Gunners" are Arsenal (I just couldn't see Porthos in a Chelsea strip, thoughts?) Find me on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Descensus in Cuniculi Cavum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descent into the rabbit's cave.

> Feel like a feather in the breeze,  
>  Floating through space in your embrace,  
>  Dancing on clouds way up above,  
>  Since the second that you beckoned my love.
> 
> I'm happy,  
>  So happy, when you're near.  
>  My troubles just disappear,  
>  As soon as you're by my side, well, I'm satisfied.
> 
> \- Dean Martin, _'I Feel Like a Feather in the Breeze'_

Athos wondered as to when, exactly, he had become a chaperone for wayward first years – naturally, he placed all of the blame directly onto Aramis' slender shoulders, the ones Athos was currently brushing against and trying not to completely lean on.

It was proving difficult when Aramis flashed him a smile with every touch.

Settling their wayward first year in was surprisingly difficult. D'Artagnan was only on the floor above them and didn't have much to move in; the difficulty came when the boy stood in the middle of his room and looked like a drowned puppy in the midst of a particularly turbulent storm.

Athos sighed, caught d'Artagnan's woeful eye, and jerked his head outside. "Come on then, we'll show you around."

A jubilant smile was his reward for being a sucker, and it was the work of minutes to show d'Artagnan the hallway where the three of them were based.

"How come you have such a large room, Athos?" D'Artagnan warily eyed the myriad boxes that Athos still hadn't unpacked – and he refused to think that he was using the boy as a distraction.

"Because he pays for the privilege," Aramis supplied when Athos would have chosen to shrug. He shot Aramis a frown but only received a wry smile in return. Athos really didn't want to delve into his past right now, he was quite enjoying the almost respectful look on d'Artagnan's face and he didn't want to taint it with the truth.

The truth being that he had more money in his bank account than he knew what to do with.

"I had my pick of rooms when I became editor of the paper," he added neutrally, and then gestured to Aramis and Porthos, "As an exchange student and a scholarship respectively, they could follow me."

Neither of them seemed as concerned as he had been to have their social states spelled out, and maybe they were right not to be, because d'Artagnan simply nodded. "Cool."

Athos had an irrational hatred of that word.

He closed his door on d'Artagnan's nosiness and murmured, "Time to move on."

D'Artagnan ducked his head to hide his embarrassed flush and Aramis gave him another quelling look, prompting Athos to simply raise an eyebrow. He would not coddle the boy - that was for Aramis to do.

"We have an appointment with Treville."

Aramis' frown turned into a pout. "Why didn't you say anything? I wanted to show d'Artagnan around properly."

"You still can, he's coming with us." Athos leading the way down the hallway.

"I am?"

"You're on the paper now, aren't you?" Athos glanced at him, curious as to whether d'Artagnan would shy away from the responsibility, but the boy simply beamed at him.

Naturally, Athos had to find yet  _another_ ridiculously happy-go-lucky person; he couldn't have found a kindred spirit who simply wanted to despise all the same things that he despised.

Actually, perhaps that wouldn't have been a good idea.

And perhaps their three boundless enthusiasms were fairly amusing, especially when d'Artagnan wistfully eyed the sprawling grounds and said, "This'd be great for Frisbee when it's warmer."

Porthos' grin might have eventually split his face had Athos not smacked a tree with the heel of his palm and sent the morning's dew cascading down on top of him.

Athos dodged out of the way before a damp and distinctly grouchy Porthos could grab him in a bear hug, and Athos pushed Aramis in the way, instead. Which meant that he now had the two of them on his tail as he darted ahead to put some distance between them.

Porthos would have no qualms about barrelling him to the floor and covering him in wet grass, so Athos scarpered to Treville's as quick as he could without looking like he was actually fleeing.

And he would deny to his dying breath that he was, and that the adrenaline coursing through his veins was anything other than exertion.

Athos could hear d'Artagnan's delighted laughter over Porthos' swearing and Aramis' Spanish curses. A smile closely resembling one ridiculous curved his mouth, but he forced it into submission as he ducked into the administration building, The Palace, and trotted swiftly up the stairs.

It meant that he could knock on Treville's door and await the quiet, "Come in", without the others catching up to him and exacting their revenge.

Was he essentially hiding behind Treville to stave off an attack?

It was simply a tactical retreat, he was sure of it.

"Ah, Athos, there you are. Settled in?" Treville gave him a brief, polite nod as he adjusted his shirt cuffs.

"Of course, sir," Athos lied, as was customary, and then they caught each other's eye to give small but genuine smiles. It was the same pattern of conversation that they had every time; Treville would ask a question that he knew the answer to, Athos would lie to provide the right answer, and then they would both move on despite knowing the truth.

To hear Aramis' romanticism tell it, it was akin to a knight's code of chivalry, you took the blame and lied about the cause. Athos was rather fond of it; it meant that he could stand tall and square his shoulders, because Treville knew that he could handle whatever he threw at him.

It was certainly more than his father had ever thought of him.

Athos took his usual place at the far wall, one shoulder leaning against the aged wood. Treville's sigh heralded clattering footsteps and Athos felt his lip twitch again.

If he'd had a wine glass in his hand, he would have toasted Treville and murmured, ' _To a new term_.'

It promised to be an eventful one.

"Aramis, Porth— why are you wet?"

Athos turned with an expectant look on his face and tutted loudly when he saw them, as if he had no part in their tomfoolery. Porthos' tense jaw told him that he would be paying double for it later, but managed to reply with some forced neutrality, "It rained."

Aramis' lips curved as he strolled into the room and left Porthos standing in the doorway, alone against Treville's best perceptive stare.

"That is a poor excuse, but I'll let it pass if only because you seem to be hiding someone from my sight. You, come out." Treville's order wasn't enough to prompt a contrary Porthos to move, but it did entice a terrified-looking d'Artagnan out from behind Porthos' protective bulk. "Ah, d'Artagnan, can I help you?"

D'Artagnan threw him a nervous glance.

"He's with us," Athos supplied, and smirked when Treville raised an eyebrow. "Yes, as Constance put it, we're recruiting early this semester."

"As opposed to 'at all'," Treville muttered, but inclined his head in Athos' direction to say that d'Artagnan could stay in the room, to the boy's small smile of delight.

"We didn't need anyone else, sir, you know that," Porthos chuckled as he hooked his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders.

"What you  _need_ isn't allowed under assault laws, Porthos," Treville sighed to their laughs, and added to Athos, "I suppose this is your way of getting around the third-year mentor program, as well?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Athos agreed with a shrug. "I am partial to a short-cut."

"Not that you're a short-cut," Aramis reassured d'Artagnan, "Athos is just idle."

"Lazy," Porthos remarked.

"Indolent," Treville put in, and Athos tipped his head to rest it against the wall.

"Thank you, my ego  _was_ in need of a diminishing this early in the semester."

"Again, assault laws." Treville almost smiled. "You need something to occupy you, if at least to keep you all out of my hair."

"What hai—?" Porthos started, but clicked his teeth together and grinned when Treville shot him a warning look.

"What would you suggest?" Athos asked, trying to divert Treville from Porthos, and entirely focused on the idea of  _distraction_. It was as if Treville had read his desperate thoughts from earlier and was offering him a reprieve. "We already have the paper."

"Yes, and look how busy you are," Treville commented sardonically, recieving a mock-gasp from Aramis.

"I'm excessively busy; I haven't even had a chance to check out the transfer students – for study purposes, of course."

"Of course," Treville said dryly and shook his head when Aramis smiled charmingly at him. "You, especially, need something tiring."

"I don't think they allow clubs like that, sir," Aramis remarked cheekily, earning a quelling stare – and Athos realised that Treville was probably where Aramis learned it from. No wonder it worked so well on him.

"We aren't exactly athletes, sir," Athos drawled. "We tend to watch rather than play."

"That we do," Aramis purred for their ears alone, and winked at a surprised d'Artagnan, ever comfortable with his own sexuality.

Athos envied him.

"Speak for yourself." Porthos flexed unabashedly, his biceps straining under his t-shirt. "You wouldn't let me play anymore rugby."

Treville actually stirred to point exasperatedly at Porthos. "I didn't let you play rugby because you decided to, and I quote,  _practice scrumming_."

"We were!"

"You were in a bar, not 10 minutes from here, at 3am, and the people you were  _practicing_ with were Guards who all ended up bloodied."

"S'not my fault they can't scrum properly," Porthos grumbled and rubbed his ear between a finger and thumb, the one that had almost been bitten off by an overzealous Guard.

Athos snorted as Aramis gave him a glance filled with reluctant humour. They had both spent that night in A&E as Porthos received far too many stitches; it was what had prompted Aramis to take his first aid courses so that he could take care of Porthos – and later, Athos, too.

Treville pinched the bridge of his nose. "What about cricket?"

"I do look good in cricket whites," Aramis conceded seriously.

"Rowing?" Treville suggested, ignoring Aramis' smirk.

"I refuse to be shouted at anywhere, let alone whilst on a body of water," Athos murmured.

"Tennis?"

"These clubs all exist, you know we like to start the trends," Porthos chuckled. "Besides, I'm better at squash than tennis."

"Useless," Treville cried tiredly, but there was amusement in there somewhere as he glanced up at his wall of alumni for inspiration. Athos stepped closer, hesitating until Treville nodded him forward, and examined a photograph that had caught his attention.

"Sir?" he asked distractedly, and the others stopped their bickering as they tried to see what Athos was looking at. "What's this?"

Treville leaned closer and snorted, "Oh, that. Nothing you would be familiar with; besides, the club hasn't existed since the colleges formed."

Aramis made an angry noise. "Ever since the Guards stole it?"

"No, actually, but Richelieu and I were the captains as youths and neither of us could agree—" Treville had noticed Athos' change in stance and cut himself off to say, "Yes?"

Athos didn't notice their whispering, his focus had fixed on that old photograph of a young Treville and Richelieu side-by-side, a trophy shield gripped between them. A shield, and something else. "May I be excused for a moment, sir?"

"Fine, but be quick, I'm in the middle of a fascinating tale, here."

As Athos strode out of the room, he heard Porthos say brazenly, "This a tale from when there were taverns?" and heard a small smack as Treville cuffed him around the back of the head.

"Could 'ave you sued for that, sir," Porthos remarked, and Athos heard another smack and Porthos' deep chuckle.

It wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think that Porthos was going to have them all expelled one day, and perhaps that thought shouldn't have been filled with so much wry fondness.

Athos jogged back to The Garrison, trying desperately to remember if he had seen the one thing that he was proud of, the one thing that his parents might actually be proud of him for – and that was saying something.

He hadn't packed it himself – there had never seemed any point whilst at university – but that didn't mean that somebody hadn't packed it for him. The staff had often stopped by his training to offer compliments when his parents weren't around.

Precious moments of camaraderie that were all too rare in that house.

When Athos reached his room, he started ripping boxes open, throwing their contents aside as he searched. Eventually, he stood in the middle of a mess that looked as if a tornado had blown through.

His gaze lit on a box marked _'fragile'_ and he prowled over to it, wondering whether it was meant as more of a reference than a statement of fact. Athos tore the tape from the box, letting it flutter around him, and thrust his hand amidst a fabric that he hadn't felt since his last time on the courts.

There.

His fingers curled around the hilt like a handshake with an old friend, and with the utmost care, Athos drew out his épée, the exact same weapon that he had seen clutched in a young Treville's hand.

It felt  _right_ back in his palm, a familiar weight and a feeling of  _power._  He wanted to swing it, to loosen his muscles, to  _spar,_ to whirl across the courts until his muscles burned and his lungs ached.

To feel that euphoria of exertion as everything else melted away.

But Athos took a breath and forced himself to push it aside and shake out his arm - and perhaps that was familiar, too. A brief wrestle with his belt and then his épée was hooked at his waist as he left his room in its destroyed state.

Treville's eyes lit up when Athos strode back in, as did Aramis' when he caught sight of the glittering slash of steel at his waist.

"I should have known, Athos," Treville laughed quietly. "Are you proficient?"

"I think I was fencing before I walked," Athos replied dryly, and handed over his épée a little tentatively, as if loath to part with it so soon.

Treville hefted it happily, the blade ringing as it left its sheathe; and with the skill of someone long trained, Treville fell into a stance that Athos recognised. "It's lighter than I rememeber."

"It probably is," Athos admitted. "I had it specially made for my height, weight, and style."

Treville's smile was bordering on a grin as he reluctantly passed the weapon back, hilt first. "I think you've found your distraction."

Athos turned to the others with an enquiring lift of his brow, unwilling to pressure them into something they weren't interested in. Porthos weighed his head to the side and shrugged. "I'm game, s'just a long knife, right?"

Aramis slid Porthos a glance when Treville frowned, but interrupted any sudden questions by asking lowly, "May I?"

Athos met light brown eyes turned dark with something he wasn't sure that he could name, but he knew that his mouth had gone too dry to do anything other than nod.

Aramis held the épée with the reverence it deserved, but when he went to swish it – as everyone just had to do when holding one – Athos only had to hold a hand out for Aramis' superior reflexes to have him halting immediately.

"If you're in, you may, but not here," he murmured, trying to make his smile simply encouraging and not ten thousand degrees worth of lust from seeing his épée in Aramis' graceful fingers.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good distraction, after all.

"You need a first year," Treville reminded, and Athos locked onto it as his only means of escape. Had he really been considering Aramis and Porthos in fencing gear as anything other than mind-blowingly attractive?

 _Idiot,_ he chanted to himself as he snatched his épée back, and vowed to pack it away, never to see the light of day again.

Wait, why was d'Artagnan looking very excited?

"Count me in!"

Fuck.

"Then consider yourself a team," Treville announced, something like pride in his voice, and then a distinctly dark smile curved his mouth. "Richelieu is going to fly off of the handle."

Athos stiffened, wary of any threats towards his friends – towards his  _teammates,_ he amended a little bitterly. "Will that be a problem?"

"No, no." Treville pressed his lips together dubiously. "Well, don't expect to be unchallenged for long."

"Wonderful," Athos sighed, and distractedly batted d'Artagnan's fingers away from his épée. "I suppose we'll need swords."

"Send me the bill," Treville said, and it was a dismissal and encouragement all in one.

Athos heaved another sigh and turned to the others. Aramis and Porthos were both murmuring about something and they each had a huge grin on their faces, but their glee was nothing on d'Artagnan's, whose beam could probably rival a supernova.

"Wait a moment, Athos." He turned on his heel to return to his place. Aramis gave him a concerned – and strangely considering – glance, but Porthos hooked an arm over Aramis' shoulder and led him after d'Artagnan – which probably gained him a brownie point or two in Treville's books.

"Yes, sir?"

"Recruitment," Treville said simply, and Athos wondered when the old man had gotten so good at reading him.

"I have recruits."

Treville rolled his eyes. "Athos, you need more than three members."

"I do, I have d'Artagnan, too."

"Don't be pert."

"But, sir—”

"—But nothing, I expect to see an advert in the paper tomorrow – and don't forget that I  _know_ you're the editor."

Athos muttered something derogatory under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Athos replied swiftly, "Is that everything, sir?"

Treville's lip twitched almost into a smile. "Yes, off with you." Athos was closing the door as he was loudly reminded, "Tomorrow, Athos."

Athos considered sticking his finger up at the door but Treville had eyes like a hawk, and they were everywhere, so he wouldn't put it past the old git to know.

Besides, he respected Treville more than he respected anyone else in the world.

Treville was the one who had snagged him after first year midterms and said that the newspaper team would be graduating by the end of that year. Athos had agreed without thinking about it, too floored by being singled out for something  _good._

It was the first time that anyone had looked at him and seen him capable of achievement since Thomas had died and Athos had shut himself off from the world.

Now, Athos had three green recruits on his hands and an instruction to find more – _a quoi diable pensait-il?_ Because it sounded like far more work than he was comfortable with.

Still, with his épée at his side, Athos felt incredibly satisfied, in a way that brought his stance together and his shoulders straight and… It felt marvellous.

As Athos headed downstairs, he found the three of them waiting in the reception, Aramis flirting with Treville's middle-aged secretary as Porthos and d'Artagnan lounged against the doors.

Athos tapped his foot once and Aramis looked up with a pleased smile on his face, turning back to his quarry with a murmured, "Call me," to which she scoffed and sent him away.

The faint flush of pink on her cheeks made Athos shake his head in amusement.

Aramis could charm anyone, regardless of age or preference.

D'Artagnan wisely waited until they were outside again before saying, "Okay, he's terrifying."

Aramis chuckled, "He likes Athos."

"He  _likes_ Athos?" d'Artagnan asked incredulously, and stammered when Athos raised an eyebrow at him. "It's just— he was still so mean to you!"

"Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, that's Treville's motto," Porthos said with a grin.

"It works very well," Athos stated loyally as his hand came to rest on the hilt of his épée. Aramis noticed and nudged Porthos to attract his attention to it. "What?"

"It suits you, the sword." Aramis' eyes met Athos' a little slow, as if they had dragged a path up his chest – but that was his own fevered heartbeat speaking. The épée was a distracting sight, it wasn't surprising that their attention was diverted.

Men and swords, and all that.

Porthos nodded, a bright intensity to his eyes as he watched Athos duck his head in pleasure at the compliment. With a clearing of his throat, Porthos hooked an arm around Athos' shoulder, wary of the épée between them. "So, what are we called?"

Athos' curved his hand around the hilt, using the bite of steel to ground himself against the distraction of Porthos' presence. His head was a-whirl with thoughts and sensations, the most intoxicating being the thought of his favourite weapon in Aramis and Porthos' hands.

And wasn't that an image that could totally derail a thought process?

Oh.

"What?"

"Isn't it obvious?" D'Artagnan flared his palms when they looked at him. "You're bringing the team back from the dead, Treville used to captain it, and Athos studies English. The Dead Fencers' Society!"

Athos laughed, and it was the cherry on top of how exhilarated he felt; that heady, dangerous feeling that - almost - everything would work out. Porthos frowned at d'Artagnan, and then leaned strangely into Athos' side, hard enough for Athos' bubble of laughter to be cut off.

Suddenly, Porthos had darted away, and Athos felt a distinct lack of weight at his hip. He frowned at a chuckling, épée-wielding Porthos, mostly so he could ignore the heat in his stomach. "Hand it over, fiend."

"You're so dead for the water thing," Porthos mock-threatened, but was eyeing the markings along the hilt. "What does this say—?"

Athos leaned in and jammed his thumb into Porthos' wrist, shocking his surprisingly perceptive friend into dropping the hilt directly into Athos' palm.

"Hey, unfair!" Porthos growled, and Aramis' laugh seemed a little husky as he stood at Porthos' side.

Athos placed his front foot at an angle, feeling the stance settle him like nothing else could. It wasn't a complete feeling, he was only half-correct, but it was enough to see their eyes widen and hear d'Artagnan's awe as Athos stepped forward with the point raised at Porthos' chest.

" _En garde_ ," he ordered, and smirked when Aramis murmured a whole-hearted agreement.

Athos managed to hold the position for a full few seconds before Porthos tilted his head calculatingly and lunged forwards, nimbly dodging Athos' épée to knock him off balance and tackle him to the grass.

There was a moment where Aramis had snatched his épée as Porthos held his wrists behind his back that Athos was certain his heart would explode.

Then Porthos pushed Athos' face into the damp grass and Athos let it happen, because he deserved it, and not because he enjoyed the way Porthos had him completely pinned.

It had nothing to do with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at the beginning, I was totally referring to the épée... Pop by my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) to shoot the breeze and/or some headcanon!
> 
> Some of you may be asking "Why épée, ComeHither?", and I would say to you "It's my favourite". If I could, I would have the épée rules for contact but the sabre's rules for what part of the blade you can use. In essence, it would be a free-for-all; think James Bond in _'Die Another Day'_ (this is why I have not been invited to FIE).


	5. Facta Non Verba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deeds not words.
> 
> There's a few _'The Dead Poets' Society'_ references in this chapter. There's no impact if you don't know them, but Athos' pain isn't quite as funny if you can't picture the quote at the end. Enjoy, _mes capitaines_!

> I get a kick every time I see you,  
>  Standing there before me.  
>  I get a kick, though it's clear to see,  
>  You obviously do not adore me.
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra, _'I Get A Kick Out of You'_

D'Artagnan flourished under their praise for the team name, his smile an ecstatic little thing as Porthos ruffled his hair. A quick discussion later as they walked back to The Garrison, Athos sent a mock-up recruitment advert to Treville and slipped his phone back into his pocket with a smile.

It took less than a minute to receive a reply.

ONE NEW EMAIL: TREVILLE.

[Don't even think about calling it that. I am  _not_ Keating.]

Athos smirked at his screen and tapped a reply, [But you're so inspirational, sir.]

Athos wanted to think that the reason Treville didn't reply immediately was because he was laughing too hard. When his phone eventually buzzed again, it said, [If I hear one quote from the film then I am dissolving the team.]

Athos laughed when another email arrived almost instantly, [And no mantras, I don't want anyone's parents saying that I'm corrupting you.]

He tapped a reply and knew that Treville could tell he was smirking. [Of course, sir.]

Aramis leaned over to read what he was writing and snickered, "How difficult was it not to write one?"

Athos held his fingers up and made them twitch as if they couldn't hold themselves back. "You have no idea." Aramis laughed and grabbed for his hand, smoothing the faux-twitches out and letting go far too soon.

Although, it was Aramis, his little finger stayed linked with Athos' for a good few seconds before he got distracted and pointed something out, Athos mourning the loss a little too keenly.

Nothing new there, then.

D'Artagnan bombarded him with questions about fencing on the way back to their dorm, and Athos answered them all dutifully, pretending not to be amused when Porthos or Aramis sneaked a question in under d'Artagnan's rampant enthusiasm.

"So do we 'ave to wear them tight trousers? 'Cause I dunno if I wanna do that," Porthos groused, thumbs hooking into his pockets as he dubiously eyed Aramis' skinny jeans.

"Do you want your épée to get caught in your jeans?"

Porthos chuckled, but then Aramis threw out a hand and frowned. "Wait, if there's measurements needed, we're roping in Constance. I will not have ill-fitting clothes."

Porthos snorted and tugged at Aramis' gilet, the British racing green one that he had dragged them all into a Jack Wills store to manhandle off of a mannequin. "Think she'll say yeah after the last time she measured you up?"

"Constance," Aramis replied as matter-of-factly as he possibly could, "is a professional, it's the only reason she has to deny me at every turn, I'm certain of it."

Athos scoffed at Aramis' wounded pride and coughed innocently when he received a glare. "Regardless, I'm sure she'll help, it would be against her generous nature not to."

D'Artagnan frowned briefly, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. "Do you think she'd want to join the fencing society?"

Athos shook his head and tried not to smile at the boy's forlorn sigh. "Constance isn't much into competition."

"She's no pacifist though," Aramis explained, and added a little dreamily, "She can be very violent."

D'Artagnan's expression changed to one of suspicious horror so Porthos pushed Aramis gently on the shoulder and clarified, "He means passionate, and he's only sayin' that 'cause she slapped 'im last year when 'e tried it on."

"Constance is the only person to have successfully denied my advances," Aramis said over-dramatically, before grinning at Athos with eyes that flicked to his épée. "Well, and Athos, of course."

Athos almost stumbled, but years of stance training kept his feet steady even in the face of Aramis' seductive smile – which was a bit like trying to stand up to a very persuasive and cuddly cat. Athos reached for his usual response, the raised eyebrow and dry tone of voice, "Yes, because  _everyone_ you meet succumbs to your charms."

Athos had to do this, had to be overly neutral, because otherwise he would do something disastrous like flush, and risk accidentally giving away how much heat flared in his stomach at Aramis' attention.

If Aramis was the cat, did that make him the mouse? The plaything in Aramis' clever paws? Except thatAramis wasn't like that, and Athos had run long and hard to escape that poisonous brand of manipulation before.

He who had never before run from anything, but then Thomashad changed all of that.

"You can consider me one that didn't," d'Artagnan grumbled, pulling Athos out of those dangerous memories. The boy smiled when Aramis' hand rested over his own wounded heart. "Sorry, Aramis, you're not my type."

"Devilishly attractive?"

D'Artagnan chuckled, "No, male."

"Athos says the same thing, but he still loves me, don't you,  _mon cher?_ " Aramis asked cheekily, and Athos had to keep his breath from hitching at that mischievous twinkle.

At times like these, when Aramis managed to get under his skin and nest there, words were Athos' shield. A woven tapestry of verbal cues that would hide his physical ones, and where better to find layered meanings than in poetry?

"I love not Man less but Nature more." Athos mentally kicked himself anyway, because for a moment, for a stupid, idiotic, insane moment, he thought that his  _devilishly attractive_ friend was doing more than teasing.

And it  _wasn't_ hope, because Athos didn't want  _that_ , he didn't understand  _that_  enough to want it.

Athos sighed heavily and wondered why life had to be so fucking difficult and the heart— no, the  _brain_ , so damn confusing.

D'Artagnan's brow puckered and Athos felt that familiar tell-tale fear seize his breathing, the one that gripped him when Aramis or Porthos stood too close and Athos knew his pupils had dilated. Normally, he could hide behind his quotes, his stolen lines that hid his truths, but d'Artagnan might  _know._

The boy's expression lightened. "Byron!"

Athos would have sagged in relief if Aramis hadn't still been watching him. He would have to be more wary in future, Porthos and Aramis accepted the lines for how they sounded, not what they  _meant_.

One more thing that he had to watch himself for.

Porthos laughed and pushed in between him and Aramis, acting as the grounding buffer that he always was, as if he somehow knew that Athos was struggling. "Aramis-sexual ain't a thing, sweet."

"Yes, it is." Aramis smiled at the affectionate nickname, at how he  _always_ garnered pet names from everyone – Aramis-sexual or not.

And Athos was fairly certain that it  _was_ a thing, a bizarre, undiscovered thing that needed quarantining. One that didn’t end there, because Athos also had to hold back his shiver when Porthos’ bulk brushed against his shoulder and the responding grin was both the cause and the cure.

It was also an anchor, that grin, and it even anchored him through the gooseflesh that threatened to prickle his skin. Porthos wouldn’t sneak close and trail his fingers along Athos’ arm, as Aramis would, but his firm palm was just as shocking, just as satisfying.

Athos should have known that their third year would be the most difficult, as if life was punishing him for not dealing with this  _bad habit._

What was the nicotine patch equivalent of this?

"—common room, Athos?"

Athos blinked out of the heated maze that his mind had become. "Yes, fine."

Porthos was watching him as if he could see into his head, a look that made Athos’ gaze skitter away. As if summoned, his thoughts tumbled over themselves, memories of evenings that he spent hot and bothered and needing to do something that a cold shower couldn’t fix.

So many evenings trying to purge the all-consuming attraction for them by reaching down beneath the covers and—

Porthos' grumble cut through his frantic thoughts, "You alright?"

Athos would have flushed under that concerned regard, had all of his blood not rushed elsewhere, and it took all of his desperately flagging focus to murmur, "Fine, thank you."

Even he heard the strain in his voice, so it wasn't surprising that Porthos frowned, his hand rising as if to grip Athos’ shoulder. Contrasting wants clamoured for Athos' attention, desire and denial, but he was saved from both by Aramis trying to drill the dorm’s door code into d’Artagnan’s head.

"Try to associate the numbers. What year were you born?" Aramis recoiled in horror when d'Artagnan answered. "You make me feel old, d'Artagnan, stop."

Porthos chuckled and d'Artagnan scowled. "I can't help my age."

"Then stop looking so young, grow a beard." Aramis ran his fingers along his own, perfectly manicured facial hair.

D'Artagnan blushed furiously and Athos took pity on the boy, pushing past to key in the code himself. "Aramis, we don't all have hours to stare at ourselves in the mirror."

"Or any reflective surface," Porthos added with a grin.

"I am not Narcissus," Aramis growled, and shoulder-checked him as they walked inside.

Athos raised an eyebrow and pinned Aramis with his stare, silently enjoying the way Aramis' light brown eyes blazed darker in irritation. "Do you mean to tell me that you have  _never_ admired your own reflection in a pond?"

Aramis didn't so much as blink as turned his nose up at them, throwing his sculpted jawline into stark relief. "I won't stay here to be mocked."

"Yeah, you will." Porthos hooked an arm around Aramis' waist to stop him from storming off.

"You're just jealous." Aramis sniffed, but a smile flirted with his lips when Porthos tugged him closer and herded him along the corridor.

Athos laughed when d'Artagnan did, but, watching them, felt the absence of their touch like an iced brand along his side. It wasn't in Athos' nature to seek it out, but he had spent enough time with the tactile two that he had unwittingly started craving it.

Physical affection was just another sign of their friendship and shouldn't have made him jealous, he wasn't  _allowed_ to be jealous; it was because he deliberately maintained an air of dissatisfaction that they only grounded him when they knew that he needed it.

Except that he was so used to pretending that he didn’t, he fooled even them.

A bitter victory.

D'Artagnan sneaked him a little glance when Porthos deliberately tripped Aramis to make him squawk. They had fallen back from the boisterous pair, and d’Artagnan took the opportunity to say quietly, “Thank you.”

"Don't mention it," he murmured, gaze locked on Porthos and Aramis until they disappeared down a side hall. When d'Artagnan would have spoken, he gave the boy a quelling look. "You're welcome, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan ducked his head to hide his smile and Athos obeyed the urge to bump the boy's shoulder with his own. The smile grew, and Athos felt his own curve his lips.

Perhaps he had learned a little bit about how to ground people.

Wouldn't Thomas have been surprised?

They turned the corner to see Aramis leaning against the wall and Porthos standing at his front, an arm braced by Aramis' head and something intense in his smirk. It faltered when Aramis' gaze jumped to Athos', but turned fond when he saw his and d'Artagnan's smiles.

D'Artagnan looked at Athos curiously so he shook his head with a laugh – they were just tactile. The boy would learn that soon enough, even Athos hadn't held out for long.

It was still surprising when Porthos' hand fell to Aramis' hip, but then Athos remembered that they were touch-hungry fools, and he had simply forgotten that over the summer.

He had definitely forgotten. Athos almost jumped when Porthos' warm fingers touched the small of his back as they walked into the smaller commonroom, but that was a normal occurrence, too.

Possibly too normal, because Athos automatically turned to catch Porthos’ chuckle when Aramis wiggled ahead of them, competitive smile gracing his lips.

Athos waved goodbye to his sanity.

Two first years were fiddling with the speakers in the corner, trying to turn their music up higher than it had been programmed to go.

"Go on, git," Porthos called good-naturedly. "It's got a lock on it."

The pair looked up dejectedly, noting the way the three of them sprawled across the three sofas with accustomed practice, and then sloped out of the room, d'Artagnan smiling a little smugly.

It was good to be kings.

Once they'd gone, Porthos made room for d'Artagnan and reached for the wire to plug his phone in, opening an app to bypass the speakers' lock. Music pumped, something dreadful and bass-y and probably very popular. Porthos glanced at the distinctly unimpressed look on Athos' face, chuckled, and switched it to something calmer.

Satisfied, Athos leaned forward, completing their triangle. "To business, then?"

D'Artagnan's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Are you going to recite the welcoming speech?"

"Yes," Athos nodded sombrely, and stifled a laugh when d'Artagnan realised that his joke was being taken seriously. Porthos and Aramis caught his eye and smirked, catching on in their telepathic way. "Come now, gentlemen, let's instate d'Artagnan properly."

"S'the Musketeer way," Porthos clarified gravely to a wide-eyed d'Artagnan.

Athos held his hand out, palm down, and felt his lip twitch when Aramis and Porthos were quick on the uptake and added their hands to the pile.

"All for one," he said quietly, and nodded at d'Artagnan to add his hand. He did so, a little tentatively, but smiled when they all grinned at him. "And one for all."

Porthos bursting out into laughter clued d'Artagnan in first, who turned indignant eyes on Athos and accused, "You made that up!"

"Of course we did,  _petit parvenu_ ," Athos said fondly, and would have reached out to tousle the boy's hair had Porthos not done it first. "Still, you're a Musketeer now."

D'Artagnan's smile was a small but delighted thing, and Athos mirrored it.

 

* * *

 

The sound of a slap rang around the small room and Aramis grinned despite – or, more likely, because of – the pink handprint blooming across his cheek.

"You let me off easy!" Aramis exclaimed happily as Constance returned to measuring the inside of his leg and d'Artagnan stared in astonishment. Perhaps it said something of them all that Aramis getting slapped was not a strange occurrence – still, d'Artagnan would get used to that, too.

Slaps, hugs, and one of them in so much denial that  _idiot_ was practically a constant chant in his head. Right, the three of them were  _great_ role models for the boy.

Still, Athos wouldn't change a moment of it, not for all of the acceptance in the world.

_Idiot._

"I have tailor's chalk and I'm not afraid to use it," Constance mumbled threateningly around a mouthful of pins.

"You'll need more chalk than that," Aramis purred, and yelped with laughter when Constance pinched his thigh.

"Use a pin to pop 'is 'ead,  _please_ ," Porthos called miserably from his slump across the sofa, looking for all the world as if a clothes fitting was akin to a Herculean task.

Athos scoffed from the other chair and curled up tape measures, painfully used to this sort of thing. He couldn't count how many hours he had stood in a tailor's with pins at every joint. At least with Constance he knew that he was going to like the end product – which reminded him.

"Why do I need new fencing gear? I have some already."

Aramis looked up from where he had been pointing out exactly where he wanted a seam – one that perfectly accentuated his ass, apparently – and sighed, "We have to match, Athos, we're a team."

"Why can't you just match the ones I have?"

"Because that would be boring and uncreative," Aramis murmured as he sketched a strange mark on his shoulder.

Constance nodded at whatever it was and then smiled at Athos. "Besides, this will go great towards my project; I needed to create a different style of clothing."

"See, Athos?" Aramis asked slyly. "You wouldn't deprive Constance of that, would you?"

With Constance's attention on her measurements, Athos raised an unamused eyebrow at Aramis but replied dutifully, "Of course not."

Aramis blew him a kiss and Athos had to keep his cheek from twitching into a pleased smile. If he was honest, he was quite looking forward to what gear designs he and Constance had come up with – not that he would admit to it just yet.

"As you refuse to join us, you'll be reimbursed," he commented, and tried to make it sound inconsequential.

It didn't work.

Constance stiffened and stood to scowl at him. "I won't take payment, Athos, this is a gift."

"As is payment,  _ma chou_ ," Aramis crooned placatingly, and Constance valiantly tried to remain stoic – she was probably the best at it, but even she started to smile at Aramis' charms.

"You know Treville'll insist you 'ave it, Constance," Porthos added, voice muffled from where he was now face-first in the couch cushions.

Constance's gaze returned to Athos, her last hope, but she sighed when he simply smirked. "You may buy us a round of drinks if it appeases you."

She snorted a laugh but threw her hands in the air. "Fine," she said exasperatedly, but then smiled, her anger thankfully short-lived. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Now," Athos gestured at a bemused d'Artagnan who had been sat awkwardly in the corner, "onto d'Artagnan?"

"Um, I'm fine. Just make mine like Athos'."

Constance tapped her foot and glanced at the space that Aramis had just vacated. D'Artagnan threw Athos an aggrieved look but trudged over, already as under her thumb as they were.

Although, perhaps for different reasons.

Constance's brisk movements were professional, but the boy was still a shade of pink somewhere between fuchsia and magenta. Athos empathised, thankful for his own control over blushing at such casual torture, and tried his best to offer a distraction. "What classes do you have on Monday?"

"Shakespeare," d'Artagnan squeaked when Constance ducked to measure his in-seam.

"On a Monday?" Porthos asked disgustedly, having lifted his head to trail his fingers over Constance's box of tricks. He hesitated over the chalk and, when Constance saw him and smiled, he grinned and pocketed some charcoal.

Athos would have asked him what he was plotting but d'Artagnan's eyes were squeezed shut as he tilted his head to the ceiling as if asking for help from above. "Every day is excellent for Shakespeare, Porthos, you boor."

Porthos noticed him watching and made the 'wrong' buzzer noise. "Nah, Monday's recovery day."

"Wasn't Monday your rugby meet?" Aramis asked distractedly as he wiped at a chalk mark from his jeans.

"Exactly, what's a better way to get through a hangover than beatin' some bloke to a pulp?"

"Charming." Athos inclined his head at d'Artagnan. "How about Tuesday? I'd like to have try-outs for the team, then."

"Linguistics lecture in the morning, but then I'm  _free,_ " d'Artagnan's voice peaked at the last word when Constance's hand brushed his leg as she moved her tape measure. She didn't notice, but the rest of them did.

Aramis' snicker earned him a glare from d'Artagnan. "Excellent, Tuesday afternoon it is." Aramis already had copies of their timetables on his wall, and his enquiring stare at d'Artagnan made Athos think that the boy's schedule might soon be added to theirs.

D'Artagnan had gone straight from stranger to recruit to an apparently essential part of their lives. Not as essential as each other, but Athos already found himself considering the boy in everything that they did.

He reminded him of Thomas.

"Will you be joining us, Constance?" Athos asked swiftly, forcing his thoughts aside as Constance wrote down a final measurement and d'Artagnan sighed in relief.

"I'll pop by," she said with a preoccupied smile, "but I'm out for dinner that night."

"Ah, the mystery man?"

Constance flushed, and it was a rare enough sight that they were all struck silent by it. "Yes, actually."

Aramis recovered first, his gaze narrowing shrewdly. "Going anywhere nice?"

"Regent Street." It was a deliberately vague reply in the hopes that they wouldn't spy on her – which they would never even dream of doing.

Porthos removed his chin from the arm rest and, hidden from Constance's sight as she faced them, mouthed, _'Ice Bar'._

"How pleasant," Athos remarked with enforced geniality and made a mental note to dig out a warm jacket from his boxes.

He hadn't been to the Ice Bar in an age.

"Right," Constance announced with some finality as she picked up her things. "Measurements done; if I can coerce some of my friends into helping then I might even have them done by Tuesday."

"I would rather not have to recruit fencers in a shirt and jeans," Athos said dryly, and received a smack on the arm for his trouble. "Thank you, Constance."

She slid him an entertained glance and then waved off the two offers of help from Aramis and d'Artagnan, the latter looking decidedly forlorn when she said a simple goodbye and disappeared.

"She does that," Porthos called without looking up, somehow knowing that d'Artagnan was staring in confusion at the closed door. "She's not angry, don't fret."

"Aramis," Athos murmured as he picked up a list of what looked like the attributes to a Lycra catsuit, "what on Earth have you designed?"

Aramis snatched it from his hand. "That is for me to know and you to find out.. in three days."

"Am I going to hate it?"

"You hate everything,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis remarked airily, and took one large step onto the table.

Athos tilted his head in equal parts agreement to what Aramis had said, and confusion at what he was doing. It was only when d'Artagnan grinned mischievously and accepted Aramis' hand up that Athos realised what was going on.

"Don't you dare," he warned, holding up his phone. "I will email Treville immediately if you say it."

"How'll you show off your fencing skills, then?" Porthos chuckled from his sprawl across the sofa, looking very much as if he wanted to stand with them but his laziness wouldn't allow it.

"I will live," Athos snapped haughtily, and glared at a laughing Aramis and d'Artagnan. "So help me, I will scrap the whole team."

"O Captain—" they chorused, but Aramis threw himself onto Athos when he tried to open his emails to Treville.

"Aramis!" he snarled, only to find Porthos' firm grip snagged on the wrist that held his phone. "Porthos!"

"O Captain, my Captain," Porthos chuckled, and Aramis took the opportunity to sit on his chest and snatch his phone as d'Artagnan fell onto a sofa and giggled like the scoundrel that he was.

" _Mon capitaine,_ " Aramis purred, and Athos gave up struggling.

There wasn't enough blood in his hands now, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, a Musketeers quote and a TDPS one; just _look_ at me shoehorning the references in. This is the scene I'm referencing at the end, it's on my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/post/111630276337/dead-poets-society-1989) posts.
> 
> Jack Wills is a British clothing store, I see Aramis just bounding around the brightly coloured racks with a gleeful smile on his face. After which, he pushes Athos into All Saints (another British clothing store, think Athos' canon gear but modernised) and dresses him in distressed leather and snazzy blazers. Porthos, having nearly died of boredom, grins as they walk out of the store when Athos throws yet another beanie at him (and when Athos says that half of his clothes don't fit and dumps them in their wardrobes, everyone just hides their stupid smiles).


	6. Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fortune favours the bold.
> 
> This chapter features two of my absolute favourite Shakespeare plays, and the song choice is thanks to "desrose" for reminding me of this **perfect** song!

> Why can't I fall in love,  
>  Like any other man?  
>  And maybe then I'll know what kind of fool I am.
> 
> \- Sammy Davis Jr. _'What Kind of Fool Am I?'_

"Parry, d'Artagnan," Athos repeated for what might have been the hundredth time – and how he wished that he were using hyperbole.

"I  _am_ parrying!"

Athos flicked his épée up and prodded d'Artagnan's shoulder with ridiculous ease. "No, you are not."

"Oh,  _tais toi_ , Athos," d'Artagnan muttered, having picked up on Athos' orders far too soon than was probably decent. It wasn't French in Athos' natural accent or Aramis' practiced one, but at least it wasn't Porthos' entirely unaccented and incredibly plain attempt.

Porthos could make Shakespeare sound harsh.

Athos still liked to hear him say it, though, especially when he was slumped over his desk with a thousand things to write and Porthos, with one comforting hand on Athos' shoulder and the other holding whichever play Athos was studying, recited a few lines.

Once, dawn had been creeping over the horizon, Aramis had slipped a scalding coffee between Athos' cramping fingers, and Porthos had spoken. "His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, or Jove for 's power to thunder… Sounds like you, Athos."

Athos had snorted a faceful of steam and raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the two, who, between them, emulated Caius Marcius' bright spirit, and conquered Athos like he was Corioles.

"Parry," Athos insisted of d'Artagnan again, mostly to drive the wistful thoughts away, but also in the vain effort to drill the reaction into the boy's head.

D'Artagnan wasn't hopeless - far from it, actually. Taking into consideration that the boy hadn't picked up anything other than a stick to play soldiers with as a child, he had considerable potential. It was just a shame that he took every loss like a personal blow.

Of course, so did Athos, he just didn't lose.

D'Artagnan's loud sigh echoed around the room and Athos had to hide his amused smile. Had he been like that, once? He supposed he must have been, but he didn't remember talking back to his teacher as much as d'Artagnan did to him.

It was Aramis and Porthos' fault, they had been all too happy to lunge for their newly arrived épées and start thrusting at each other, completely ignoring everything that Athos had to say. At least d'Artagnan had listened gleefully, looking nothing like the grieving shadow that he had been two days ago.

Honestly? Athos was starting to like the little hellion.

After Constance had left with the fitting details, d'Artagnan had remained sprawled in the common room with them, bickering over sports with Porthos and chipping in for pizza. He had looked like he wanted to do the same thing on Sunday but, after herding him to breakfast, Athos had nudged him towards some of the other first years.

Aramis had fretted like a hen that had lost its chick, but it had done d'Artagnan some good to mingle with his year mates. It was only later that day that they had bumped into him in the halls in the midst of a stirring debate about great inventors that Athos was all too happy to weigh in on – wanted or not.

"Tesla," he had remarked as they passed the arguing pair, "Edison was a fraud."

D'Artagnan had beamed at him, his nod enthusiastic when Aramis had invited him to dinner, coming with stories of his year mates that had them laughing. He fit in well with them, and brought a few willing recruits for fencing try-outs from amongst his new friends.

Admittedly, the boy's fascination with Constance was a bit wearisome, but Athos was the last person who could make judgements on a completely preposterous and unrequited crush.

Or two.

Athos had to take a quick step back when d'Artagnan would have skewered him with his épée. "Good." D'Artagnan glowed from the praise. "Now do that every time."

Athos was met with wounded puppy-dog eyes which he summarily ignored, and received a frowning pout, instead. "You're a harsh taskmaster, Athos."

"You want to get better, don't you?"

"Yes, but we've been here for hours!" d'Artagnan whined and massaged his wrist. "My head's still full of Shakespeare, I can't concentrate."

Athos didn't feel sorry for him. He'd come out of his own Shakespeare class to find d'Artagnan staring pitifully at his week's assignment – the boy had only had an hour lecture, Athos had been up at seven to sign for the épées' delivery and then had three hours of _'Henry V'_.

"Get used to it; we're doing this every Monday." Athos raised his épée again and d'Artagnan groaned aloud even as he dutifully fell into position. "Now, once more unto the breach."

D'Artagnan scowled and Athos would have started the next bout, had Aramis' laugh not distracted him. "For God, England, Harry, and St. George!"

Athos' gaze flicked to the side and d'Artagnan took the opportunity to sag to the floor and simply watch the spar happening alongside of them, which meant that Athos had to do the same.

Watch, not sag to the floor.

Porthos chuckled as he deflected one of Aramis' strikes. "Nah. For God, England,  _Athos_ , and St. George, surely?"

" _Touché_." Aramis' smile was a sly thing that caused Athos' pulse to jump and d'Artagnan to laugh tiredly from his sprawl on the ground.

Aramis and Porthos squared up to each other, both in jeans and shirts with their sleeves rolled up – they looked like 17th Century duels come to blaring modernity. Aramis was in pale denim and white – lending wonderful contrast to his natural tan – and Porthos was in black – offsetting the gold of his earring to give him a glowing lustre.

The weak afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows of the sports hall and Aramis and Porthos sparred through the beams, kicking up eddies of dust that chased their movements like magic sparks.

Watching them was like a kick and a caress – and Athos didn't want either.

The pair had picked up the rudiments of fencing quickly enough that Athos had left them to it, choosing to focus on d'Artagnan, instead.

Looking at them now, he realised that they had forgone the rules of épée for some sort of bastardised sabre technique. Their moves were sneaky and merciless, and they both had strange criss-cross patterns on their skin.

"Slide into the third movement," Athos called as he watched their attempt at a pattern, but it fell on deaf ears as Porthos deliberately smacked his épée down onto Aramis' bare arm and made him yelp.

A red welt joined the others, and Athos realised that they had been really going for each other.

And snickering whilst they did it.

"Too hard, Porthos!" Aramis grumbled as he fell back into the original stance, his form picture perfect. Aramis stood like a master, his feet in the right places, his spine straight and his jaw lifted. He was a flawless silhouette to Athos' trained eye.

Porthos, however, had feet that knew no bounds, and yet he was lightning fast with his épée. In a true spar, Aramis would win simply because Porthos would be disqualified for footwork, but no one could deny that Porthos wielded the weapon like it was an extension of his arm.

They noticed his attention and preened. "Aramis has the stance, Porthos the skill; you need to swap tricks."

Porthos grinned lewdly, his smile bright enough to part clouds. "Hear that, Aramis? Athos wants me to teach you my tricks."

" _Please,_ " Aramis drawled, voice silky smooth and self-assured, "you'll be learning from me."

"Yeah? You wanna bet?"

"Try me," Aramis dared, and laughed when he had to only take a single step to escape Porthos' reckless lunge.

Athos hid his smile and pointed at Aramis' feet to d'Artagnan. "See how Aramis moves? By returning to the right placement, he only ever needs to take one step in and out."

Aramis turned to smirk at him, neatly side-stepping another of Porthos' lunges. It was an arrogant smile, and arrogance was a great man's downfall.

Even if it did look sinfully good on Aramis.

"Of course," Athos continued as he turned on one heel and raised his épée's point to face Aramis, "stance is nothing without skill."

"Is that slander, Athos?" Aramis asked, and Athos felt the challenge like predator's growl along his spine, as if a fleet-footed cat had run its claws across his skin. It tightened his muscles and quickened his breath, but he managed to nod and slightly tilt his weapon upwards.

He would not fall prey to Aramis' charms, not with an épée in his hand.

Not on the courts, anyway; here, he was king.

Aramis clinked his épée along Athos', and blinked when Athos needed only half a step and a twist of his wrist to gently flick his épée across the tanned length of neck that he had the strangest urge to bite.

Porthos chuckled tauntingly, so Athos stepped across one foot and swiped for Porthos' legs in one motion, catching d'Artagnan's fingers as he pulled back.

"And you are all nothing without practice and  _rules_ ," Athos said idly, and stumbled backwards with a laugh when they glanced at each other and advanced on him. "Gentlemen, please, it's customary to bow."

D'Artagnan scoffed at him, as if he was an idiot to suggest such a tactic, but Aramis swept into a graceful bow immediately, his épée perfectly flourished as if he were a glorious conquistador and Athos a ship he wished to plunder.

Athos matched the bow and, with the slightest glimmer from under his eyelashes, waited until Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

He ran.

 

* * *

 

Athos refused to call it hiding - it  _wasn't_  hiding per se, but he was certainly holding his laboured breath when they came darting after him and barrelled past his nook.

"What makes you think he'd come here?" d'Artagnan panted, glee a high-pitched note in his voice.

"Athos is as predictable as a cat, he might roam occasionally, but he always returns to where he knows," Aramis murmured as he typed the code in and they scampered inside The Garrison, leaving Athos to stare at nothing for a while, trying to examine the little burst of warmth in his chest at those focused words, at d'Artagnan's knowledgeable little laugh.

They knew him so well.

Athos knew that, of course, he knew it from how they stayed up with him until he was almost dropping from tiredness before ferrying him to his bed, and how sometimes they would collapse alongside him and keep the nightmares at bay.

He knew from how Aramis used the ache d'Artagnan had caused in his jaw as an excuse to give him a hug, and how Porthos found him staring at a creased photo and flourished a crumpled bag from the old sweet shop on the other side of London.

They almost knew him better than he knew himself, but not quite. How could they when he had secrets held so close to his heart that revealing them would be akin to breaking his ribs? 

Worse, for he could deal with the attacks on himself, but he would rather die than let them be hurt.

Athos slid out from behind the frosted trees and headed back for the practice courts, knowing that they would return eventually – because he knew them just as well – and then he could trick them into more training.

They were doing well, the three of them were, they had an aptitude as if they were meant to wield weapons and challenge people to duels.

He should have expected it, really, Aramis was quick and graceful, and Porthos was like a tiger, quiet and deadly, and capable of sneaking up on you even when you thought you were safe.

So he probably also should have expected to take a few steps into the building and hear a surprisingly quiet footfall and a slink of steel.

 _D'accord_ , so perhaps they did him know him pretty damn well.

Athos only wished that he hadn't expected the burst of warmth flaring into something dangerously close to heat. There was a prickle along his neck, and he imagined it was the same way prey felt when it was being stalked.

The prickle felt  _good._

Athos tamped it down, as he always did, and turned on the spot to face intimidation given human form, and it was breath-catching.

"Knew you'd come back," Porthos chuckled, the sound low and inviting – except that it  _wasn't_ , Athos just kept reading it that way, the  _wrong_ way, and he really needed to stop before he did something utterly insane.

But Porthos was stunning at the worst of times, and here, with his shirt sleeves rucked around his biceps and his grin like that of a supernova, he was gorgeous.

Athos resisted the urge to smack his head repeatedly against the closest wall.

Oblivious to the battle taking place in Athos' thoughts, Porthos lazily twirled his épée, the light catching every twist and giving him an alluringly menacing quality as he advanced.

Athos stood his ground but let his hand fall to his hip, accepting the challenge in the only way he knew how – his fingers clenching slowly on his specially designed swept hilt.

Porthos watched raptly. "Why's yours different from ours?"

Athos didn't need to look at his épée to know what the differences were; he could draw it from memory so often had he traced his fingertips over the curves, his palm clasping the jewel in the heft. "When you've developed a style, you can design yours."

"Yeah?" Porthos completely missed the accidental husky note to Athos' voice, too busy examining his own épée. Porthos' stance was still all wrong, but he held the weapon like it was a broadsword, capable of cleaving through targets, like a knight of old. "Think I want one with that cup 'ilt, cover my hand. Aramis kept sneakin' 'its on my knuckles."

Athos felt his mouth curve even as his heartbeat thundered in his ears. "He knows how you fight."

Porthos shrugged with a smile. "He's watched often enough, you both 'ave."

"I have never asked you to punch someone on my behalf,  _mon ami,_ " Athos pointed out dryly. "I am very capable of doing so myself, and have done."

Not that Athos hadn't enjoyed Porthos' enthusiastic vigour whenever someone was a little too touchy with Aramis, because the protective fire that blazed in his dark eyes was so very captivating.

If Porthos had to be placed in a sport that he would thrive in, boxing or wrestling would be his forte. He stood like a melee fighter, the huge muscles in his arms and legs tight with the confidence of punching the lights out of anything. He definitely floated like a butterfly and stung like a lorry filled with bees.

"No, true, you don't," Porthos agreed a little too easily for Athos' liking. "You c'n defend yourself, that right?"

"Yes?" Athos didn't know why he made it sound like a question, but it had something to do with the way Porthos took a step forward - a very intimidating step forward.

"Don't need anyone to 'elp you?" There was a wicked glint in Porthos' eye that Athos wished didn't make his blood heat. Threats just sounded so absurdly deliciouscoming from Porthos' throat.

"No?" Another question, and as Athos said it, he took a step backward, losing ground, losing face, and bumped into someone else.

"Hello,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis purred against his ear, breath hot and chest hotter against Athos' back.

Athos' mind blanked with uncontrollable lust.

" _Putain!_ " Athos tried to jerk away in surprise, but Aramis' épée came up to rest across his chest, holding him firmly against his captivating captor. "Aramis," it was verging on more of a hoarse plea than an order, but his breathing was suddenly shallow and all he could think about was what he had done that morning.

Alone, in his bed, mind awash with thoughts of the three of them.

Athos had told himself that this would be the last time, that it would finally clear his bloodstream of this ridiculous, unexplainable, completely unwanted  _addiction._

He hated that word.

"Thought you didn't need 'elp, Athos?" Porthos chuckled, and it was dark and teasing and Athos had to hold himself back from shivering at the sound of it, because this time, it  _was._

Porthos took another step and Athos instinctively rolled back on his heels. For the briefest of moments, he brushed against Aramis' hips, and Athos' whole body jolted with heat.

The addiction had him, and it wasn't letting go, it never did.

Panic overcame him like a wave toppling a sailboat, and Athos tore from Aramis' grip, chest heaving with agonised breaths, desire squeezing every tendon.

It hadn't been this bad before, never this strong – but then they had never tag-team sneaked up on him before. Athos had never had one at his back and the other advancing upon him as every thought spiralled downwards.

Ever so literally.

 _Fuck_ , he was such an idiot, why couldn't he follow his own advice?

"Easy." Porthos' hand landed on Athos' shoulder, dragging him back to reality. "We're just playin'."

Aramis' head was tilted to the side, perception a glitter in eyes that seemed totally overtaken by pupils. "Just a little game,  _mon cher._ "

Those lyrical words were like a fresh buffet of desire, and when Athos heard the far door clatter open and d'Artagnan's irritated grumble, he could have hugged the boy in stark relief.

"Not more sparring,  _please._ "

Athos shrugged Porthos' hand off of his shoulder and ignored the look that he shared with Aramis – a furrowed brow and a silent question that Athos couldn't read.

He needed to act normal, because as much as he knew that every time they touched him, he lost a bit of himself to the storm, he also craved it with every breath in his body. He was an addict that needed his fix, a sailor who jumped into the felling wave not to survive it, but to follow the sweet sound of the sirens.

Athos' eyes almost closed in defeat, but confronted with d'Artagnan's petulance and his heartbeat finally calming, he grounded himself by clamping his épée's hilt until it hurt, the patterned pain familiar and calming, oxygen bubbles in the darkening deep.

This, he knew this.

Athos breathed a sigh that settled him, felt his fencer's grace flow through his bones, and forced every single traitorous feeling aside. "Do you want to look incompetent tomorrow?"

D'Artagnan pouted but Porthos scoffed, "In front of who? No one knows how to fence."

Athos managed to meet Porthos' slightly irritated gaze with simple nonchalance. "We're in England, Porthos, fencing isn't  _that_ uncommon."

"Right, 'cause we're totally Eton an' Harrow right now."

Aramis perked up from his casual lean against Porthos' side, his sweet smile in stark contrast to Porthos' clenched jaw. "Are strawberries in season yet? I want Eton Mess."

"It's September," Athos remarked wryly. D'Artagnan looked between them, confused, but thankfully only by the reference and not the colour that Athos was sure still stained his cheeks. "Eton Mess? It's meringue, strawberries, and cream. I introduced the recipe to Aramis and it's his new favourite thing."

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis in impressed astonishment. "You make it?"

Aramis inclined his head in humble admission, but Porthos grinned proudly and hooked him around the shoulder. "Aramis s'the best baker in the world!"

"I try my best with what we have," Aramis said modestly.

"What he tries is always remarkable," Athos explained, easy with praising Aramis from afar rather than pressed against his chest. "What we have is a kitchen in the middle of a busy dorm that can smell cake from miles away."

"It's true," Aramis sighed forlornly, as if every baked creation was his precious baby. "They're like sharks and blood, but with sugar."

"Can I try some?" D'Artagnan asked curiously, and Aramis leaned forward to flick him fondly with his épée.

"Shark."

When d'Artagnan laughed sheepishly, Athos smirked, eternally grateful that he could do so without letting anything slip. He knew what he needed, he needed time alone, he needed to rebuild his shields and  _not_ think about them.

Except that he knew the moment he disappeared into his room, all he would want to do is walk out of it again, to surround himself with their energy like tantalising torment.

"Come, gentlemen," he called instead, focusing on the one thing that could take his mind off of everything, as it had for all of his life. "Spar."

It worked, to an extent. Athos' head filled with patterns and tactics, almost forgotten tricks that he passed onto d'Artagnan. And if he sometimes found his eyes slipping to the side to see the laughing pair, and he was admiring far more  _form_ than was necessary, he told himself that he was checking for flaws.

There weren't as many as he had hoped.

The pair of them bickered good-naturedly over skills that night, d'Artagnan being dragged in to judge when Athos was lost to his thoughts and required a nudge on the knee to come back to them.

As if they were ever far from his mind.

When they deposited him at his bedroom, feeling their concerned smiles on him as he closed his door, arms tired and brain exhausted from trying to  _not_ think all afternoon, he realised that he had to do it all again tomorrow.

"Why?" Athos mumbled to himself as he fell face-first into his bed, absolutely exhausted. "Why did I think that this would be a good idea?"

Still, at least they would have Constance's creations to try on tomorrow, and whatever it was that she and Aramis had put together.

The images of Aramis and Porthos in fencing gear flickered through Athos' mind, of Aramis at his back and Porthos at his front, of being pinned between them and  _fuck_ , he couldn't do this again, he couldn't touch himself to thought of them _again_.

 _Sleep,_  he ordered himself.

His body didn't listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're feeling as antsy as Athos, there's always my other fics - which are far more, ah, _rewarding_ in their current state. There's something to be said for starting a fic with OT3 already established, means you can jump straight to the nookie.
> 
> As always, come find me on my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


	7. Tempora Mutantur, Nos et Mutamur in Illis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Times change, and we change with them.  
> The original adage for this fic, because I imagine Athos sees time like a river, always in flux and prone to sudden diversions.
> 
> Some artistic licencing with the gear, imagine black Dry Fibre versions of their canon jackets; I love Athos' buttons too much to change them (he's like a regency miss with hundred-button shoes). Triggers for drinking and road-traffic accidents.

> Hey there, cutes, put on your dancin' boots,  
>  And come dance with me.  
>  Come dance with me, what an evenin' for some Terpsichore.  
>  Pretty face, I know a swingin' place,  
>  Come on, dance with me.  
>  Romance with me on a crowded floor,  
>  And while the rhythm swings,  
>  What lovely things I'll be sayin'.  
>  'Cause what is dancin' but makin' love,  
>  Set to music...playin'?
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra,  _'Come Dance With Me'_

"No."

"Athos, you haven't even seen them."

"I don't need to see them, the answer is still no."

Aramis rolled his eyes and continued ripping the box open with joyful abandon, tape and cardboard fluttering around the changing room. The four of them had run over after Aramis had appeared at lunch with two enticing boxes, both with a _'love, Constance'_ scribbled on the side.

"You weren't asked, this is what you were given." Aramis' self-assured smile told Athos that the next thing that he said would be the clincher, "And Treville says that they're appropriate."

"Fucking Hell," Athos muttered, and automatically ducked before he realised that Constance wasn't there to tell him off for swearing – she was quick with that reprimanding palm. Straightening, Athos glowered at the contents that Aramis was rooting around in with a smug grin on his face. "It's just not right. Fencing is like Wimbledon, our gear should be white."

Aramis pulled out some ridiculously tight black trousers in the Dry Fibre fabric that Constance must have sourced for them – another sign that he was screwed into accepting this. Aramis held them against his legs delightedly. "Nonsense, have you seen Roger Federer at the US Open? Black is  _so_ good."

Porthos raised a dubious eyebrow. "You based our gear off of your tennis crush?"

Aramis scoffed gently, "Would I do that?"

"Yes," they both said, and even d'Artagnan nodded – the only difference was that the boy actually looked quite excited, whereas he and Porthos were decidedly unimpressed.

Aramis caught their doubtful expressions with a glare. "Oh ye of little faith, just wait here." He disappeared into the stalls connected to the changing rooms, and Athos blinked in confusion. Aramis was in no way a prude, he was quite happy to get naked at the drop of a hat – and sometimes the hat was part of it – but then Athos realised that they had company.

Aramis wasn't risking d'Artagnan's innocent sensibilities, unfortunately.

No, not unfortunately. It was a  _good_ thing, he couldn't be dealing with the seductive line of Aramis' backside today, not when he had to start try-outs in an hour and act like some sort of responsible adult for his team.

Why had he ever thought that this was a good idea?

"I've got a bad feelin' about this," Porthos muttered, keeping his voice low as d'Artagnan dived into the box to look for his own gear.

Athos tipped his head against the wall. "You agree that it will look terrible?"

"Nah." Porthos shook his head, his eyes trained on the doorway that Aramis had vanished through. "I think it's gonna look amazin'."

Athos frowned at that strange statement. "It won't matter, fencing has  _rules_ , I'm sure it must be against some, somewhere. Besides, Aramis hates black—"

Athos' words choked in his throat as Aramis walked, stalked,  _prowled_ back into the room, an athletic shirt on and those sinfully tight trousers clinging to his legs. That line he had insisted upon really did perfectly accentuate his ass – and Athos knew he really shouldn't be noticing that.

Aramis looked utterly gorgeous and Athos' mouth had lost any faint hope of moisture.

"I think they're quite flattering, really," Aramis said dryly, and held his palm out to Athos.

It took an embarrassing amount of time for Athos to realise that Aramis wanted his épée, and when he passed it over, Aramis caught it easily, something wonderful taking over his body as it smoothed out.

Whether it was instinct or because Aramis was simply born to wield a sword, his wrist loosened and he swirled the hilt, sending the slash of steel singing through the air, and every slice cut Athos to the burning quick.

"Okay," Porthos said when the silence had gone on a little too long. "Black is good."

Athos agreed numbly, and Aramis preened under their attention like the pretty peacock that he was. Athos cleared his throat, trying to gain some semblance of sanity, and asked hoarsely, "What about jackets?"

"Ah, the  _pièce de résistance_ ," Aramis sang with a devastatingly proud smile, and started calling their names out as he threw them each a package. More black, more of that same material, but picked out with silver accoutrements, bright zips and buckles; perfect companions to the polished épées.

Athos tore the plastic when something colourful caught his eye, and laughed in surprise when his fingers found delicate thread. It was a powder-blue crest, the same shape as the college's but with a quill in the middle, and framing the bottom half were three épée hilts.

"Aramis," he asked wonderingly, "did you design this?"

"The idea was mine, but I had some help with the drawing," Aramis ended teasingly and Athos noticed that it was aimed at Porthos, who was blushing like Athos had never seen before.

Actually, Athos hadn't even known that Porthos  _could_ blush, he was far too balanced for foolish things like embarrassment.

"Was just a sketch," Porthos said sheepishly, fingers absent-mindedly fiddling with the black toggles that stretched across to the right side of his jacket.

Athos looked down at his own jacket and realised that it was different, his had little silver buttons cascading down the side fastening, Aramis' had wider toggles that seemed far easier for him to leave his jacket half open _(quelle surprise)_ , whereas d'Artagnan's only had a few silver buttons, but they all had the crest emblazoned on the right shoulder.

It was personalised to such an affectionate level that Athos wasn't quite sure what to say.

Athos ran a gentle hand over the three hilts and knew it was  _them_ , it signified the three of them, and he adored it. "These are amazing."

"They're awesome!" d'Artagnan cried, shrugging his jacket on immediately, which was when Athos saw the powder-blue lining on the inside. It flashed brightly as d'Artagnan swung it on, and Athos had to smirk at Aramis.

"Couldn't keep it wholly sombre, no?"

"Of course not,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis laughed, even as he beamed in pleasure at the overwhelmingly positive response.

"Mine better not be as tight as yours, Aramis," Porthos grumbled uncertainly, hand falling to the waistband of his jeans to readjust. "I need more space, if ya know what I'm sayin'."

"Why, Porthos, as if I would risk your discomfort so," Aramis purred, and a dirty grin split Porthos' face. It was no different to their usual banter, nor was the lingering glance Porthos gave as Aramis turned to admire himself in the mirror.

No one could deny Porthos that, Aramis was like a fine work of art, he needed to be admired. Aramis used recognition like oxygen, without it, he might fade away.

They were doing Aramis a  _favour_ by admiring him.

Athos would have let his head sink into his hands at his own idiocy if d'Artagnan hadn't been looking, too, and Athos used that as fuel for his theory.

Although, Athos would have put a large amount of money on d'Artagnan not thinking about peeling that gear off of Aramis' slender form. Which sort of separated the men from the boys, didn't it?

Why couldn't he have stuck to smoking? At least that was a bad habit he could get away with - until Aramis had found out, anyway.

"Alright, gimme a minute." Porthos took his bundles into the stalls after a tiny frown at d'Artagnan's gleeful form. The boy was twirling in front of the mirror, smoothing his hands reverently down the special fabric and over the crest.

"A quill for the newspaper?" d'Artagnan asked, and Aramis' nod evoked a smirk from Athos.

"Newspapers and poets," Athos clarified dryly, and Aramis slid him an amused glance. "Treville will claim we're forming a monopoly."

"Good, you run it best, Athos," Porthos called as he walked out of the stalls, fencing t-shirt snug across his chest and around his biceps, jacket dangling from his fingers. "Is this too tight?"

"No," he and Aramis both said immediately, even though there was a tiny chance that it might have been. It slicked over Porthos' muscles like a second skin, as if it hugged him, as Athos wanted to.

"Is it comfortable?" Aramis asked, and when Porthos nodded with a rueful grin, Aramis shrugged happily and ran a hand across Porthos' collarbone. "That's all that matters."

Athos chuckled when he realised Aramis' voice had dropped a little, and took some small comfort in not being the only one affected by this damn gear.

Of course, he, of all of them, really shouldn't be.

"Can't fault Constance," Porthos admitted. "She's done a blinder with these measurements, but I'm puttin' my jeans back on for now."

D'Artagnan shrugged, lifting his chin as he looked into the mirror – _bordel_ , the boy was definitely picking up posing tips from Aramis. "They're black, it'll probably look quite good with the jacket."

Aramis stilled, and Athos only noticed it because he had, too, and he looked up to see Porthos weighing his head from side to side. "Good point."

"You should try it," Aramis said nonchalantly, and Athos had to hold himself back from eagerly echoing it, even as he told himself to shut up,  _shut up._

Porthos chucked Aramis on the chin with a muttered, "Watch it," and Aramis held his hands up in a _'look how innocent I am'_ gesture before joining Athos on the bench, his shoulder a warm weight through Athos' shirt.

"Will you at least try them for me, Athos, please?" Aramis asked on a plaintive sigh, and Athos raised a deliberative eyebrow.

He had been about to anyway, of course he had, because Aramis had gone to so much trouble and he couldn't deny Aramis anything, not when he looked at him from under his eyelashes and gave him a nervous smile.

" _Terreur_ ," Athos murmured, smirking when Aramis' smile immediately turned sly. "Fine, but you owe me."

"Is that so?" Aramis' voice lowered, his gaze jumping to an oblivious d'Artagnan and back again so that the boy didn't get the wrong idea.

Because he was teasing, Aramis was  _teasing_ , but every word felt like a caress along Athos' senses. It was so very difficult to meet that naturally heated expression and not join in the game, not engage in the flirtatious banter that Aramis engaged  _everyone_ in.

Athos couldn't, because that wasn't what he did, he didn't  _flirt_ , he wasn't  _tactile_ , he didn't even swing that way.

He didn't _know_ what he was anymore, he had been broken apart and put together again so many times that he didn't even know himself. He was a vassal of his parents' invention, as if he inhabited a stranger's body.

Except that this body burned for the one pressed against him.

Aramis rose like a cat that had scented prey and his voice was a purr, "Por- _thos_."

And there was the other body that Athos' burned for, and with it was a guilt so consuming that Athos had to fight back a shiver. They were his best friends, and he hated himself for slowly falling in love with  _both_ of them, betrayal blaring in time with his quickened heart.

"What?" Porthos asked distractedly as he walked in, tugging his new jacket around his neck. D'Artagnan's off-the-cuff comment was the understatement of the century - Porthos in his fencing jacket and jeans looked better than good, he looked positively sinful.

Porthos always stood like he was utterly sure of himself, but comfortable in his dark jeans and with the fitting black jacket hugging his broad shoulders, he looked like he could kick your ass without breaking a sweat.

And he'd enjoy every single second of it.

Aramis picked a speck of something off of Porthos' arm and Porthos unconsciously leaned into the touch as he resettled his jacket.

Athos looked at the pair of them, at the pretty picture they made and the way they made his pulse heat. He ignored it; he focused on the gear, the movement it would allow them.

He repeated his mantra; over and over again that he was his parents' son, a la Fère.

Whether he wanted to be or not.

Aramis stood at Porthos' back, hands resting on Porthos' shoulders as they admired themselves in the mirror, and Athos forced his lineage through his head a hundred times over.

"You look like you're in a gang," d'Artagnan exclaimed excitedly.

Athos finally let his head find his hands. "You're going to make me hate fencing."

 

* * *

 

"I hate fencing."

Porthos grinned at him, exertion a flush on his cheeks that suited him far too well. "Sure you do."

They had been running through potential recruits all afternoon, sending the decent ones into Athos' experienced hands, where he had put them through their paces and signed a few up.

It should have been easy, Athos hadn't yet met his match, but glancing up from a bout to see two agile shadows either sparring with each other or vetting another candidate was almost enough to have Athos skipping his steps.

He shook his head out of a daydream that he really didn't have time for, and rested his épée over his shoulders with a sigh. "How many left?"

Aramis flicked through the signing sheet with one hand, the other pushing through enticingly sweaty curls. "A handful, we're still getting walk-ins, though."

Athos groaned exhaustedly, mumbling a thank you when Porthos shifted to let him lean against muscled shoulder. His cheek pressed against the fencing society's crest and he heaved a steadying breath, feeling responsibility like a slightly cloying fog around his face.

He had started this, now he had to finish it.

Athos looked up at the ready and waiting fencers, helmets already on and fidgeting to get started. "Any with prior experience?"

"One, just walked in, says here she's a bit rusty, mind."

Just what he wanted, an easy distraction. "Perfect, you three can sort out the rest, yes?"

Porthos nodded, his palm returning to his épée's hilt again, a comforting gesture. "We got it sorted, go an' be king, Athos."

Athos hid his smile and slipped his helmet down. "That's 'captain' to you."

Porthos' chuckle seemed to stroke up Athos' back when he walked off, and Athos only just caught Aramis' pleased little hum as he took up position and gestured for someone to step forward.

The newcomer was in recruiting gear – white and grey that seemed very boring now that Athos had noticed the way muscles bulged under black – but it meant that he wouldn't be tested. Had he been confronted with personalised gear and a designed hilt, he might have taken a moment to prepare himself. Instead, he simply took a breath and raised his épée.

What had he told them, that arrogance was a man's downfall?

Athos' opponent attacked like lightning, smooth and quick and never seeming to strike in the same place twice. Athos was three points down before he realised that his signature move was being used against him.

Athos could feel eyes on him, two pairs that seemed to burn a little hotter than they should, and inside, he snarled indignantly. Forgotten la Fère pride reared its head and fuelled his movements until he spun that much faster, lunged that much harder, and he pushed his fiery aggressor back.

Athos scored one point past even and then dragged his helmet off, breathing heavily and determined to know  _exactly_ where they had learned that particular little wrist trick, the one he had been convinced he had learned from a very secretive master.

He felt his pride like a roar, like paws across his shoulders. He was Athos de la Fère, editor of the college newspaper and captain of the fencing team, and then, in one graceful movement that his brain found feverishly familiar, blonde curls tumbled around a slim neck, and everything Athos had become simply fell away.

Something old and forgotten flared in Athos' stomach, a deep-seated affection that had his jaw almost dropping. "Ninon?" His smile was completely surprised when he recognised sky-blue eyes and porcelain skin that would show every single suck mark.

"Athos! What are you doing here?"

It felt ridiculously familiar for Athos to tug on her extended hand, dropping his helmet to the ground so that he could kiss her cheek and hold her close. It felt like holding a memory, a sweet and delightful one, and he had so few of those.

How long had it been, four years? Since before Thomas, before the hospital visits and sickening smiles; since the last time that Athos had felt comfortable in his skin.

"I've— I've been here for two years," he managed to get out around his astonishment, something desperately needy in him not wanting to let her go.

Ninon's fingers curled around his. "You've been here for two years and didn't come to see me?" she asked in faux-horror, but there was a genuine thread of disappointment there that had him wincing guiltily.

He had thought about it, of course he had, but Ninon knew…  _so much._

"Things.. didn't work out." Athos felt his stomach twist when she glanced at his hand, thankfully hidden by his gloves.

Ninon's expression clouded and he could see the turmoil on her face, whether to be pleased for him or not. So much had happened, he wasn't sure if they knew each other like they used to.

The notion hurt.

But then she lifted a finger to touch his jaw, just for a second, and murmured, " _Tempora_ _mutantur._ "

The words hit him like a feather-covered brick and for a moment he was a child again, hiding in the garden with a golden-haired imp as they taught themselves Latin. Instinctively, he completed the line, " _Nos et mutamur in illis._ "

It was the last thing they had said to each other before he had returned to Paris for what had seemed like a death sentence, for his future had awaited him there, and he had detested every aspect of it.

It had been a death sentence, but not for him.

Ninon squeezed his fingers, bringing him back to himself, her smile a small beacon on his horizon. "Are you staying at the house?"

Athos flinched as his surroundings reasserted themselves, the idle chatter of students, the clink of épées, the almost painful twin gazes from his two best friends; his subconscious was screaming to take care.

Athos felt his hands shake, but they were safe in Ninon's, and he could take a breath. "No, no, I'm on campus."

"Oh." Ninon followed his uneasy glance to the side-lines, where she couldn't help but notice how he tensed upon seeing a wide-eyed Aramis and Porthos. Ninon hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. "Well, you should come by; my parents would love to see you. I'm sure they've forgiven you for the vase."

Athos surprised himself by snorting in amusement. "Please, how you pinned that on me, I will never know."

"Because I'm sweeter than you," she teased, and Athos' laugh eased a tightness in his chest. It was wonderfully natural to raise an eyebrow at her and for her to wink, mischief a sparkle in her perceptive eyes.

His smile felt genuine when it stayed. "Well, I would love for you to sign up, we need a female presence, and you evidently haven't forgotten  _everything_ I taught you," he said dryly, feeling her natural light like a balm across his soul.

Ninon's lip quirked up and then she laughed, light and airy. "Thank you, but no." Athos frowned and resisted the urge to lean on his épée like a schoolboy, his gaze questioning. "I just wanted to see if I still had it, evidently, I have."

Athos felt his mouth curve further. "You kept your modesty, too."

"It's nice when some things don't change, isn't it?"

Athos could only nod in wholehearted agreement, her presence like an etching in the marble of his heart. Ninon's attention drifted to Aramis and Porthos again, who were still staring outright. A frown crossed her brow for the briefest of moments and then she tugged at his arm. "Fancy meeting up for a drink, later?"

"Yes," he said immediately, and ducked his head when she smiled. "It's a celebratory night for the society so we're heading out to Regent Street, you should come."

"Even though I'm not on the team?"

"Even though." Athos' smile was an affectionate thing, and Ninon laughed softly before placing a gentle hand over his heart.

It had been their version of a hug when he had been far more tactilely averse, and Athos almost stumbled underneath it.

Ninon leaned in to kiss his cheek, the scent of champagne and Chanel bringing back so many old memories. " _Á ce soir_ , Athos."

" _Adieu, ma cherie._ " Ninon wandered off, seeming to take the light with her, and Athos felt bereft without it.

It was d'Artagnan who broke into his reverie. "Who was that?"

Athos blinked, shaking his head in confusion when he realised that nearly everyone had gone, the remnants filtering out and the sign in sheet completed.

Time always seemed to flow strangely when Ninon was around.

"Ninon's an old friend," he murmured distractedly, his head still caught up in the drift of an hourglass as Aramis stared at him in shock.

"You let her touch you."

Athos felt humour tug at his cheeks. "It's what she does, she's like you," he commented in surprise, and didn't know why Aramis inhaled sharply.

Porthos' frown soon found Athos. "What'd she say that made you look like your world was endin'?"

"Or starting," Aramis added quietly.

Athos still felt Ninon's fingers on his jaw, on his hand, on his chest, so he smiled a little cryptically. "That, gentlemen, is none of your business." When they both scowled, he shrugged. "It was Latin."

Aramis' scowl deepened as d'Artagnan laughed, "Finally, a language Aramis doesn't know."

Athos raised an eyebrow, amused by Aramis' irritation, and teased, " _Bonum punctum, amicis meis."_

"It's a root language, I can translate well enough," Aramis snapped, and looked as if he wanted to say more but then Porthos nodded jerkily over their shoulders.

Treville had come down from his hidden perch in the viewing balcony, his expression entertained as he reached for Aramis' clipboard. "Why didn't you sign up Ninon de Larroque? She would've been a wonderful addition."

"I tried, she declined." Athos shrugged, and wasn't sure why Aramis had a small, dark smile on his face.

Treville sighed, "Athos, you  _need_ more people, you can't just exclude—"

"—Sir, no, I did try. I was the one that taught her how to fence."

There was a beat of silence where Athos could have sworn that he heard Porthos mutter a curse word under his breath, but when Treville looked up, he and Aramis were suspiciously quiet.

"Well," Treville conceded, returning to his notes, "you did a good job, then. Some adequate names here, but see if you can't persuade her otherwise.

"I was already planning on it." Athos matched Treville's smirk, keen to get the team started. "How long do we have before the Guards are up and running?"

"A few days, maybe more if Louis doesn't spill the beans to Anne." Treville made a face at the blatant mutiny and then pinned d'Artagnan with a quelling stare. "Let that be a lesson to you, d'Artagnan, don't flirt with the enemy."

"Can you say that, sir?" d'Artagnan asked cheekily.

"Yes, I can." Treville tried to hide his smile and failed. "And don't pick up any more tricks from these three, they're a bad influence."

The three of them scoffed and Athos was pleased to see that Porthos and Aramis had gotten over whatever strange affliction they'd had.

It wasn't until they had bundled outside, fencing jackets on over their jeans and their épées holstered that Porthos started frowning again. "Who is she, Athos, why 'aven't we heard've 'er before?"

Athos took a deep breath and didn't even consider lying - he wasn't sure he could, anyway. Secrets were a heavy burden, and he kept enough from them, already; it hurt, he couldn't hide anything else.

"I used to visit London as a child, Ninon lived a few doors down."

"What, you used to play in the street?" Porthos asked dubiously, and Athos was startled into a small laugh.

"No, of course not, but our parents rubbed shoulders and we were thrust together more often than not. We became friends."

"So we saw," Aramis said moodily, but brightened when Porthos glared at him. "She seems nice."

Athos looked between them in concern, feeling as if he was missing out on something important – and he was notorious for seeing all. "Is everything okay?"

"Course." Porthos' grin seemed far more genuine than Aramis' had been. "Just surprised you ever 'ad friends before us."

Athos relaxed with a fond, slightly far-away smile. "She wouldn't have it any other way."

There was a moment's reprieve, during which Porthos started rubbing his thumb in a small circle over Aramis' wrist. "Athos, what exactly was she to you?"

Athos curled his hand as if he could still feel Ninon's there, her slim fingers entwined with his, her gentle palm over his heart. "She was my escape."

 

* * *

 

Athos wasn't quite on tenterhooks, waiting for Ninon, but it was a close-run thing.

Aramis had been pressed against Athos' side for most of the evening, Porthos' protective gaze never leaving them for long, but Athos barely noticed it – bar the usual difficult throb of his pulse at their proximity, causing him to clutch at a few beers to numb the lust.

However, the moment Athos saw blonde curls at the bar's door, he was out of Aramis' hold and across the room before Porthos could finish whatever growled remark he had been about to make.

" _Bonsoir,_ Imp." Athos was completely unable to hide his soft smile at the sight of her.

Ninon beamed, dressed in a shimmering white cocktail dress that glinted with the coloured lights from the dance floor. Her slight arm draped over his shoulder as she leaned in for a brief kiss on his cheek, and Athos inhaled her familiar scent greedily.

Greedy for things unsaid and things that hadn't passed.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she murmured as he led her to the bar, his palm at the small of her back almost on instinct. "Highest turn out for a club this year?"

"It's a society," Athos corrected immediately, smirking at her fond exasperation. "Thank you, it surprised me, too."

" _I'm_ not surprised," she said archly, humour glittering in her smile, "not now that I've turned my ear to the ground."

Athos made the appropriate impressed noise that was expected of him. "Ah, the queen of secrets, are you not?"

"I can't help it,  _dahling_ , people just love telling me things!" Ninon mimicked a supercilious friend of their parents, and snorted delicately. "Had I known that the eponymous title _'him'_ was referring to you, I would have sought you out a while ago. My own fault, I suppose, for not mingling with the masses."

"You, not a social butterfly? I refuse to believe it." Ninon's natural charm bewitched everyone, but it explained why he had never seen her around campus. "In what world am I given a title?"

"Aside from  _editor_ and  _captain_ and  _one of them_ , you mean?"

Athos felt as if cold water had trickled down his spine. "One of them?"

Ninon hummed in agreement as she signalled the barman over. "Your little threesome, the two cute ones you're always with."

As Ninon engaged the enraptured barman, Athos took a shaky breath. His secret was safe, for a little while longer, at least.

Athos chewed the tip of his tongue as Ninon unconsciously leaned into his space and he into hers, as they always did. He could tell her, he could tell Ninon, he could tell someone that wouldn't judge him, that wouldn't expect him to  _do_ anything about it.

Ninon knew all too well about the pressures of family, even if she didn't know about, well, everything that had happened after her.

"I may as well make a good impression," Ninon announced suddenly, and gave him a probing look. "What will your friends want?"

"Aside from you, if you buy them a drink?"

Her smile was surprisingly small, and he didn't know what that meant, so he simply gave her their last order. Ninon requisitioned a tray from her new admirer – the latest in a string – and waved Athos off when he offered to carry the drinks.

"I can manage, thank you," she said primly, so he simply gestured for her to go ahead of him, taking up the guard at her back. "Gentlemen— Constance!"

Constance appeared in a harried flash, something that might have been aggravation disappearing from her face when she saw Ninon, the two of them alike in glee.

Athos was there to accept the tray virtually thrust in his direction as Ninon and Constance hugged, the former précising the day, and the latter shooting an inquisitive look in Athos' direction.

"Don't tell me you joined the society?" Constance asked, her smile still wide, and Athos wasn't the only one who was focusing on the slight tenseness of her jaw, d'Artagnan had only picked up on it when Aramis and Porthos had stopped muttering to squint at her.

Ninon rolled her eyes. "No, if I had enough time to run around in full-body garb and flash something pointy, I would have joined a convent."

Aramis' eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't say anything until Ninon started passing around the drinks that Athos was still diligently holding. Aramis' thanks came out strangely, as if it was forced, and his smile wasn't quite as jaw-dropping as it usually was.

If Ninon noticed that anything was amiss, she didn't mention it, and instead came to stand at Athos' side, bestowing him with a golden gleam when he automatically hooked an arm around her waist, as he would do for Aramis.

"How do you two know each other?" Athos asked when Constance wouldn't stop staring, and her observant blue eyes blinked a few times before she answered.

"Ninon signed up as one of my mannequins last year, I had no idea that you two knew each other."

Ninon giggled and the sound of it made Athos smile, which made everyone else stare at him. "Athos and I are old friends, and that only because we had to spend every day of summer together. I didn't think I would see the day where he was in a  _club_ ," Ninon gasped in mock-horror, earning a few laughs.

"And suddenly I remember why I made new friends." Athos smirked at her good-natured scowl. "I believe they know of your name, but for reference, d'Artagnan is our newest recruit – do smile, d'Artagnan."

The boy dragged his attention from Constance to smile nervously; it turned into a pleased grin when Ninon complimented a fencing move he had used earlier that morning. Ninon deliberately gave Athos a sly look afterwards, knowing full well that Athos had taught them both that move.

"Imp," Athos murmured under his breath, and gestured opposite the circle, hoping his voice would stay steady. "And the two I couldn't do without, Aramis and Porthos. The former, my right hand, the latter, my left."

It earned him only shadows of their usual smiles, and that was when he realised that he wasn't quite as in-tune with his two best friends, today. As if Ninon had encircled Athos in her glowing bubble and he basked in her light, numb to their moods.

It was, he realised with a sickening start, quite a smart way to starve the addiction.

Replace one thing with another, as he always did, because he was too weak to do anything else. A scrap of memory, of that exact sentence, flittered through his brain.

Athos' breathing stuttered, just one tiny skip of a pattern, and before Porthos could step forward with a frown, Ninon was already there to squeeze his fingers with her own.

Aramis stepped forward then, his palm seeming strangely protective on Porthos' bicep. "Aren't you meant to be warning me off of her?" Aramis asked indelicately, and Ninon ducked her head in amusement when Athos snorted.

"No, if you want to be played with by a pearlescent dragon, be my guest," Athos said it easily, holding Ninon's secret close to his heart where he would never let it show.

Porthos gave Ninon an appraising look, a grin appearing when Ninon peeked cheekily at him – bewitching anything in her path. "That's some recommendation, comin' from Athos, 'specially."

Ninon pouted prettily. "I'm afraid my reputation precedes me, isn't notoriety a chore?"

Porthos nudged a scowling Aramis on the shoulder. "Ask 'im, I'm the good one."

Ninon's laugh was completely indulgent, "I have no difficulty in believing that, Porthos, you're clearly an angel."

Porthos beamed at her, the picture of innocence and pleasure at being found angelic. Athos would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been so overjoyed at seeing Ninon fit in with them, at finally seeing Porthos  _smile_ after being without it for hours.

Athos hadn't realised he had missed it until he had seen it again, and it loosened a knot in his stomach.

Except that Aramis was still scowling, and it was deepening, dark furrows on his brow and something unhappy snapping in his eyes. Before Athos could ask what was wrong, Aramis was dragging Porthos to the dance-floor, and Athos felt that tell-tale terror in his chest again, felt himself lock down before he gave anything away.

They slotted together so perfectly, the two of them. Porthos throwing Athos a despairing look until Aramis started to sway against him, and then they were both lost to the rhythm, a rhythm that Athos shouldn't want but could feel like a wave against his skin, as if he danced with them.

But Athos didn't dance.

To watch hurt just as it much as it pleasured, and sometimes, when Aramis grinned at Porthos over his shoulder, it hurt so much that Athos wanted to wince, wanted to knuckle the skin over his heart as if it were bruised.

Athos realised a beat too late that Ninon was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and he ever-so carefully shrugged, as if he wasn't affected by the pair of them dancing, just as they weren't. "They aren't together."

"No?"

That did make him laugh, even if it was a little hoarse. "They're tactile, they even have me accepting hugs now."

Ninon's eyes widened in an over-exaggerated fashion before narrowing slightly, mischief a fresh sparkle in their blue depths. "You won't be opposed to a dance, then?"

"I don't—" Athos trailed off when he felt d'Artagnan's attention on him, his face clearly saying  _what the fuck is wrong with you, she's gorgeous, go dance with her_. Athos considered cuffing the boy around the head and telling him to mind his own business, but d'Artagnan's incredulity made Athos think.

What better way to prove his sexuality than by dancing with Ninon? It didn't mean anything, anyway, as evidenced by Aramis and Porthos still dancing a little way away - Aramis was practically riding Porthos' leg, after all.

Clearly, it could just be between friends.

Long had Athos stood on the side-lines, not joining in but observing, and the act confused him. Most of them didn't so much as dance – certainly not in the way of ballroom, as he had been taught – but merely grinded against one another.

He would have thought it a solely sexual thing had he not seen Aramis and Porthos do it, which meant that it was something that friends did, too.

Athos ignored the sharp stab of lust in his stomach and looked back to Ninon's thoughtful expression. "I would love to." Her smile took a moment in coming, but when it did, it was brilliant.

Athos didn't quite drag his feet, but it took him a while to get into the swing of things. He felt, rather than saw, the moment Aramis noticed him, like an intensity on the small of his back, and when it doubled he knew Porthos had seen, too.

Athos knew tempo, he knew rhythm, so by all accounts he wasn't a bad dancer, he just didn't enjoy it. He met Aramis' gobsmacked gaze with an incredulous one of his own, trying to draw them over and commiserate – or congratulate – him.

It didn't happen, instead, Aramis began to dance again, not quite in time with the music, but his back leaned against Porthos' front until they were both moving, slow and seductive.

But they were watching him.

Athos would have flushed if such a thing wasn't beneath him, but he found it hard to concentrate until Ninon turned in his arms. Her spine pressed against his chest, and Athos instinctively curved around her in a move that he had seen Porthos do, his mouth dropping to place a kiss along Ninon's neck.

He only pulled back because he heard a commotion, and looked up in time to see Porthos trying to grab for Aramis' arm as he stormed off, some kind of anguish on both of their faces.

Athos frowned, wondering whether he should go after them, but he was dangerously tipsy and after having seen them dance, he was worried he might do something idiotic like admit that he was stupidly in love with them both, so he stayed in the protective bubble of Ninon's friendship.

Atgos stayed and enjoyed another drink and another dance, and then two more, and then he and Ninon were sprawled in a booth, Ninon telling some story about their childhood that had d'Artagnan collapsed into giggles and Constance trying desperately not to laugh.

"Yes, thank you, Imp, you're painting me such a wonderful picture."

"It's hardly my fault that you're as stiff as board, Athos," Ninon replied just as dryly, and he thought that she might be imitating him. "One would think you might make an excellent shield."

That set d'Artagnan off again, tears springing from his eyes as he snickered, completely uncaring of Athos' best scowl. Athos aimed it at Ninon, instead. "Off with you, you've tainted my friends enough, tonight."

Ninon pouted at him, but giggled when d'Artagnan nearly fell off of his chair, and leaned forwards to kiss Athos on the cheek, also uncaring of his scowl. "As it happens, I've just spotted a friend."

Athos' smile was fond as she wandered into the crowd, and he wondered whether Ninon was single-handedly ruining his reputation. He looked back to see d'Artagnan and Constance's eyes upon him, one amused and the other… thoughtful.

"Yes?" Athos asked of Constance, who shook herself out of her thoughts and said nothing, busying herself with her glass and then disappearing to fetch another. It was probably a good thing she had gone, Athos wasn't sure he could pretend to be sober, anymore.

If he was honest, he was as drunk as a skunk.

It was the mixing – his own fault, really. He'd had a glass of wine or two before coming out, and Aramis was always immediately onto spirits, and Porthos onto beers. It was only ever going to end in a cocktail of tears.

There were a few blissful moments of raucous silence, enough alcohol in Athos' veins to find the pattern on the ceiling positively mesmerising, until he let himself focus on the one remaining occupant of the booth.

D'Artagnan seemed to be at a great war with himself, his youthful face screwed up in conflict, before suddenly blurting out, "D'you think Constance would date a first year?"

Athos peered blearily at the boy before patting the seat and summoning him over, dragging d'Artagnan's slim shoulders under his arm to ensure he could properlylisten to his sage advice.

"Allow me to tell you something about  _life_ , d'Artagnan. Love, although a powerful force, is a misguiding one - it makes us foolish. It turns smart people stupid, and it turns people who really shouldn't be looking at someone's rather delectable _derriere_  into someone that does exactly that."

The words had come out in a slurred rush, and Athos wasn't sure now whether he should have said them, nor spoken about rather delectable things, so he brushed over it all with a concise, "Do you understand?"

D'Artagnan nodded in deep concentration, and then said confusedly, "That didn't answer my question."

Athos frowned, trying to remember what the question was, and then said idly, "Constance'll probably be engaged by the end of the year."

D'Artagnan's boyish face opened up into one of desolate shock. "What?!"

Athos nodded, not quite remembering why he should shut up, and no one was there to tell him. "Never seen her like this before, think this one is the, um, the, the  _one_." Athos noticed the boy's worried expression and hastened, "Maybe you can have more than one one. Two ones. A pair of ones?" Athos trailed off to do some counting, and got distracted by the shocking emptiness of his glass.

Was this not supposed to be his celebratory party, where was everyone?

Athos suspiciously eyed d'Artagnan's full glass but decided that, judging by the anguished glimmer in the boy's eyes, he could do with that drink. "Drink that, it's good for you. I'm just going to get another."

He sloped off before d'Artagnan could reply, squinting through the crowd to try and find Aramis and Porthos. Or either of them, or both of them; anyone, really.

A friendly face would be nice. Without anyone he knew nearby, it was starting to feel depressingly like he was drinking alone.

Inevitably and all too suddenly, Athos' thoughts spiralled, his heart thumping into overdrive even as it felt like it had started to crack in his chest. He lifted a hand to his mouth to try and stifle his whimper, but his skin smelled like Ninon, and that was  _before_ , before  _that_ , and the  _drinking_.

Athos started to wheeze, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs, but the air was too close and everything was too hot and he just needed to get outside.

He tumbled through a door, a fire exit if the faint alarm was any indication, but Athos ignored it in favour of sucking in huge, fresh lungfuls of air.

With every breath, his head spun more, the oxygen coupling with his blood-alcohol levels until he couldn't see straight and every lamppost was a delightfully golden blur.

All he wanted was to find Aramis and Porthos, and maybe have a hug; he could pretend that he needed help walking home.

He didn't, of course, he was fine.

And yet, Athos wanted Porthos' bright grin and Aramis' affectionate Spanish, he wanted to curl up between them and sleep off the alcohol, he wanted to wake up with Aramis' face in his neck and Porthos' arm thrown across chest to rest on Aramis' hip.

He  _wanted_  them, to be with them, to be near them, he simply  _wanted_.

The ground beneath Athos' feet shifted, his balance swaying as he stepped from pavement to road, from flagstones to tarmac, from safety to danger.

Athos turned slowly, reaching for the bar's stone wall but surprised to see it tilt further away even as it started to glow.

Athos turned slowly, and gravity pulled him sideways, he stumbled across a white line in the road, in the bright lights, in the way, always in the way.

Athos turned slowly, the car hitting his side, his cheek hitting gravel, his blood in his mouth, his ribs on fire, and the car drove away.

Athos turned slowly, and still he wanted them, even as the darkness closed in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm throwin' cars at each of the boys, lately. Only three more days of [A Musketeers' Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2387024/chapters/5274056), which means regular service will be resumed. Hugs for waiting patiently, and adoration to those of you who followed my prompt challenge!
> 
> As always, come find me on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


	8. Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What nourishes me also destroys me.
> 
> Forgive me some creative licence with this song quote. I first heard a cover of the original by Ira Gershwin that used male pronouns and knew I wanted it for this chapter, then I realised that Frank skips this verse _and_ addresses it to a woman. I’ve ignored all of that, because **lambs** , and the (dis)similarities between Thomas and d’Art just kill me.

> There's a saying old says that love is blind,  
>  Still we're often told, seek and ye shall find.  
>  So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind.
> 
> Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet.  
>  He's the big affair I cannot forget,  
>  Only man I ever think of with regret.
> 
> I'd like to add his initial to my monogram.  
>  Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra, _'Someone to Watch Over Me'_

Silence was a rare commodity in Athos' new life; if he wasn't hearing car alarms and running students, he was listening to Aramis practice a play in another language or Porthos grumbling about the numerous dates of psychology theories.

Silence was a throwback, reminiscent of a youth he didn't want to remember but couldn't forget. It wasn't just the absence of sound, but the absence of feeling; Athos had felt numb in the silence, gratefully numb, held the numbness close until he had become silent, too.

The last time he had heard such silence was before university, the hospital visit, the white lights down the long hallways.

So when Athos woke up to silence and white lights, he started to scream.

It came out thin, reedy,  _weak_ , until slim hands gripped his shoulders and he forced himself to drag in a harsh breath. The world came into bleary focus, black hair almost tickling his skin and such terror on a youthful face. "Athos!"

For exactly three seconds, Athos' world crumbled and reformed. It took that long for his fingers to reach the boy's cheek and separate the memory from the reality. "Thom—" Athos frowned,  _no_ , everything was wrong.

 _He_ was the one supposed to be leaning over the hospital bed,  _he_ was the one supposed to be pacing the hallways, absorbing the terrifying silence until that was all he was.

This silence had been shattered and now Athos could  _hear_ , soft voices speaking in English, the rattle of a trolley, a siren on the road outside of this insufferably small room.

"D'Artagnan," Athos murmured, risking one swift brush of the boy's jaw, just to check that he was real, and when a tremulous smile greeted him, Athos tried not to wish for the silence to slaughter the wailing beast in his chest.

It was Athos' turn in the hospital bed, now, and his brother wasn't there to hold his hand.

When Athos let his fingers drop, he let his eyes close, too, trying to corral the grief that rushed through him as if a floodgate had opened, one he had wedged shut a long time ago. The memories were too similar, too much, and Athos felt it like a burning pain all along his right side.

The pain didn't fade, too real to be a memory, but then his empty hand filled with a chilly one.

Athos' eyes sprung open to see d'Artagnan's hands on the bed, one was grasping Athos', and the other gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles had whitened. Concern swept away everything else, and Athos squeezed the hand in his on some long forgotten urge. "What happened?"

"They think you walked into the road," d'Artagnan blurted out, as if he had been waiting to say it for hours and now couldn't stop. "You disappeared when you went to get a drink and I couldn't find anyone, so I went looking and Constance was talking to some third year so I went outside to, y'know, clear my head."

"Easy," Athos soothed when d'Artagnan had to take a breath, subconsciously clutching the boy's hand at the sound of intense relief in his voice, relief for  _his_  safety. "I'm fine, d'Artagnan."

"But you weren't," d'Artagnan babbled, something hysterical nipping at his words. "There were people all gathered in the road and I thought for sure it wouldn't be anyone I know, I mean, I only know about five people here, and I went over, and then— and then—"

D'Artagnan's breathing grew harsh, his chest heaving as he narrowly skirted hyperventilating, and Athos felt the panic beating uncomfortably at his own skin. "Enough," he ordered, lacing his captain's command in it, and d'Artagnan drew in one last, shaky breath, before evening out.

There were five, five even breaths before the sixth one trembled.

"I only just buried my father, Athos," d'Artagnan choked out, eyes bright with tears he refused to shed. "Please don't make me…"

Athos' inhale was sharp.  _Please don't make me bury you, too._

He had only just started to nod in understanding when d'Artagnan surged towards him, but Athos managed to wrap one arm around the boy's neck in a pitiful attempt at a hug, grounding him with touch, even though d'Artagnan had one knee against his ribs and spots were jumping behind Athos' eyelids.

"Oh, shit, sorry," d'Artagnan murmured, still sounding a little wet, but better, stronger.

"It's fine," Athos replied through his teeth. "It's better than being numb."

D'Artagnan's smile wobbled, but it strengthened when Athos didn't let go of him, because, if Athos was being honest, he was pathetically grateful for that slim hand.

Athos looked around his room then, nose wrinkling at the sparseness, but for some reason, it started d'Artagnan off again.

"I've been calling them but they aren't picking up. I swear, you can see the call log on my phone." D'Artagnan brandished it, as if Athos was going to snatch it up in some kind of frenzy.

"Who?"

D'Artagnan flicked the screen onto recent calls, the list red and abundant.  _Aramis. Porthos. Aramis. Porthos. Aramis. Porthos._

Something distressingly quiet took a hold of Athos' voice. "They aren't here?"

D'Artagnan's gaze suddenly darted around the room, as if he only just realised that he had dumped Aramis and Porthos in it. "Er, no? Constance has gone to get them."

And Athos felt it now, felt it like an absence of emotion, like the silence, like the deafening, clawing silence because he was  _alone_ , and they had each other.

"Did you bring me in?" Athos asked, still in that toneless way that had d'Artagnan nibbling his lip nervously.

"Yeah, Constance came to find me and freaked out when she saw the ambulance, so she came, too."

Athos swallowed against an itchiness in his throat, tried not to remember the calls for water the last time he was in a hospital, and focused on the boy who still held his hand as if he was worried he might float off. "Thank you, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan blinked for a moment before flushing and looking away, but Athos caught his chin in his other hand and turned him back. "I may never say this again, so you should probably pay attention." Athos quirked his lip to make d'Artagnan grin sheepishly. "I… don't do  _well_  in hospitals, and your being here means a lot to me."

D'Artagnan managed to look at the ground to mumble, "Well, I wasn't going to leave you alone."

Athos' fingers threatened to clench on d'Artagnan's jaw before he let go, releasing the boy to his embarrassed fumbling of his phone. Athos shuddered, trying not to let those words echo in his head, tried not to remember how he had bolted from a bed-side all those years ago because he had been  _scared_.

It wasn't often that Athos felt old beyond his years, but confronted with d'Artagnan's loyalty was like holding up a very clean mirror, and Athos felt he looked quite tarnished in the reflection.

"I may have said some foolish things last night, d'Artagnan," he said slowly, fragments of sentences coming back to him. "I hope I didn't say anything that upset you."

D'Artagnan glanced up at him from his idle scrolling of his texts and immediately looked away again. "No."

 _Liar_ , Athos wanted to tease, surprised at the smile curving his lips. The boy might be brave, but he had a terrible poker face. It made something light battle the darkness in his chest, and Athos grabbed for it, grateful for a reprieve.

They sat without speaking for a while, and it took a moment for Athos to realise that d'Artagnan still held his hand, and when Athos obeyed a memory and brushed a thumb over the boy's cool skin, d'Artagnan subconsciously relaxed into his chair.

It was a far cry from silence, the noises from beyond the door were faint but present, and d'Artagnan's fidgeting kept Athos from his thoughts.

It wasn't until he heard Constance's voice from the hallway, demanding she be given a room number, that Athos remembered something.

"Yes, in answer to your question last night, I think she would," he murmured, and d'Artagnan looked up with a frown, his eyes widening in realisation when Constance burst into the room and the first thing she did was look at d'Artagnan.

The boy flushed and looked away, but Athos saw the edge of a very small smile on his face.

Athos' own faded when he saw who barrelled in behind Constance, their hair tousled and shirts askew, evidently drawn from sleep just because he was an idiot that wandered into roads.

"You didn't need to bring them, Constance, I'm fine," Athos insisted when guilt scorched an acidic path up his throat, even as his heart leaped at the sight of them, even as he crushed an urge to drag them into bed with him.

Constance simply gave him a look, one that told him to shut up, and then he was buried under bodies. Porthos yanking Aramis back when he leaned on Athos' side, Aramis burbling apologies, and both of their expressions strangely shamefaced.

"Look," Athos sighed when d'Artagnan had been nudged out of the way and Aramis grabbed his hand instead, "don't feel guilty for leaving me, it was my own fault for going to look for you, I should have called."

Everyone seemed to hesitate, apart from d'Artagnan, who scoffed absent-mindedly. "Except they weren't picking up their phones. You know I've been calling you for  _hours_?"

The atmosphere was so heavy it felt sticky, some sort of venomous gaze thrown d'Artagnan's way which the boy missed, but Athos didn't. "D'Artagnan was the one that found me," he remarked defensively, "I'm fairly certain I owe him my life."

"You weren't going to die, Athos," Constance said when Aramis and Porthos both flinched. "You had a concussion."

"And a wicked bruise along your right side, I saw it, it's shaped like a map," d'Artagnan pointed out helpfully, and his morbid enthusiasm made Athos laugh even as the others glared at him.

"Ah, so you admit that I'm fine?" Athos sighed when he received four unimpressed looks. "Unless a doctor has specifically ordered I stay, I refuse."

"Well, fortunately for us and  _un_ fortunately for you, they have." Constance pointed at his file by the end of his bed. "Doctor checked you over just before I left."

Athos growled something deprecating but knew he had already lost this war – hospitals were such tiresome ordeals – so he resigned himself to an uncomfortable bed and uncomfortable thoughts until he could manipulate his way out of here in the morning. "Fine, be off with you all."

"We'll stay, Athos," Porthos insisted, his hands still clenched on Aramis' waist, the three of them connected by Aramis' hand on Athos'. It was safe to indulge now, when Athos could pretend he was muzzy on painkillers and sleep-deprivation.

"Yes, we won't leave you,  _mon cher_." Aramis' smile was small, but seeing it there was enough for Athos, even if the words felt like a knife in his gut.

D'Artagnan yawned, and then Constance had him up and out of the door, the pair of them waving goodbye before it was just the three of them again.

"Athos—"

Athos cut Aramis off with one tired scowl. "I neither need nor want your explanation, you're here now, that's all that matters – and really, I don't mind if you want to go, you have class in a few hours."

He was a better liar than d'Artagnan, but they still knew he wanted them there, because they knew him better than anyone. Aramis' smile twitched at his lips as he shifted out of Porthos' grasp to sit on the end of his bed. "No, it's fine, we'll skip."

Athos tutted tiredly, trying to sound disapproving but doing a shit job of it, too busy with curling his fingers with Aramis' and relishing the contact. Warmth spiralled through his system which was only half to do with the IV hooked up to his wrist.

Porthos shuffled his chair forward, one hand tentatively reaching out to brush some hair off of Athos' forehead. "We wanna check you're okay, Athos."

"Fine," Athos said around a yawn, resisting the urge to push his cheek into Porthos' palm. "Wake me when I can get out of this hellhole."

They both laughed, which was what Athos wanted, and he slipped into sleep with the help of their quiet conversation over his head. He was between them both, and tomorrow he could deal with the emotional fallout of that, but for now, he indulged, Porthos' hand against his cheek and Aramis' weight on his legs, he felt safe.

Safe in a world where the only home he now knew, was with them, and nobody could ever know.

Athos woke sometime later, sleep dragging on his bleary mind, but drawn by some sort of reluctance in Porthos' usually steady voice. "We need to stop this."

Athos glanced at the window, dawn light starting to filter through the grey blinds, and guessed that they were hovering outside the door when he heard Aramis' quiet reply, "I know, but," Aramis trailed off and his sigh sounded broken, "I can't."

Athos fought against the darkness, trying not to let the fog of sleep consume him as Porthos murmured, "C'mere."

Athos turned slowly, and then there was silence.

 

* * *

 

Athos awoke in agony; heat was a constant pressure along his right side that built in intensity now that he was paying attention to it. A hiss escaped his lips, but it sounded muffled in something that tickled his nose.

Actually, there was heat along both sides of his body, one painful, the other comforting.

There was a weight on Athos' chest, and he panicked for a moment, a tinge of claustrophobic mania to it; but then the weight mumbled and nudged closer, and recognition finally clicking into place.

It was Aramis, Aramis' curls tickling Athos' nose, Aramis' cinnamon scent making him smile, Aramis' comforting warmth distracting him from the ache radiating up the opposite side.

Athos turned his head to see Porthos passed out in one of the uncomfortable chairs, his head tipped back and an ungodly amount of snoring rumbling from his chest, wrapped in, what looked like, one of Aramis' gilets.

Athos settled back onto his pillow with a small smile, feeling that flickering flame that always burned for them soften into something painfully tender. They had stayed with him, despite being exhausted, despite needing to be in class today.

Aramis was fidgeting again, tiny noises of distress as his fingers clasped Athos', and Athos bit his cheek in indecision. He could wake him, but that would deprive him of the sweet torture of having him so close.

Very slowly, Athos lifted his other hand and rested it on Aramis' head, breath catching when Aramis settled contentedly against him, a happy sigh brushing over Athos' skin when he gently ran his fingers through the curls.

Bliss.

It was so wrong, he knew it was, he was such a shitty friend to take such comfort from their presence, to take such  _pleasure_ from their presence. Every time his heartbeat thumped in time with Aramis', Athos wanted to wrap himself in the moment, but he wanted Porthos, too. Athos wanted to rest his own cheek on Porthos' chest, connect the three of them, and that was a betrayal he couldn't bear.

What sort of a friend was he, to fancy them both, especially when he had nothing worthwhile to offer in return.

They did so much for him, grounded him when he threatened to fly apart, and all he did was mutter his thanks and try not to think about flying apart in their arms, sweat-slicked and euphoric, with Porthos at his back and Aramis at his front and—  _fuck._

"Athos?" Aramis' mumble brought him shuddering back to the present, sleepy brown eyes that were filled with worry as Aramis' fingertips rested over his racing heart.

Porthos jerked to wakefulness, palm dragging across his drool-covered cheek. "S'wrong? S'he okay?"

Athos coughed, trying to clear his throat and disentangle his fingers from Aramis' hair without anyone realising they'd been there. "I'm fine, just," he waved his hand as if trying to gesture for an answer, "pain."

Porthos' brow puckered in concern, nearing the bed until his palm rested just beside his and Aramis'. "D'you need somethin'?"

"To get out of here," Athos said dryly, and sighed, bereft, when Porthos nudged Aramis off of him with an amused snort.

"Did you 'ave to steal his bed?"

Aramis pouted as he rose up onto his arms, legs still pressed against Athos' uninjured side. "I was tired!"

"Yeah, an' I was on the chair."

"It's hardly my fault that you didn't take the opportunity," Aramis said with a superior tilt to his smile, one that Porthos grinned at. But when Porthos turned away to stretch, Aramis whispered nervously, "I didn't squish you, did I?"

Athos ducked his head, trying not to look at the strip of gleaming brown skin between Porthos' dark jeans and Aramis' hunter-green gilet. "Of course not,  _mon ami_ ," Athos replied just as quietly, savouring Aramis' delighted little smile.

So very wrong.

Porthos' arms appeared around Aramis' waist, pulling him bodily off of the pillows. "Get off Athos' bed, cuddle monster."

Aramis squawked in Porthos' grip, feet dangling an inch from the floor, arms reaching desperately for Athos'. Instinctively, he reached out, fingers brushing with Aramis' in an attempt to help him, to bring him back against his side.

Porthos stilled first, Aramis a second after Athos had linked their hands together, and then Athos felt fear race through him at their gobsmacked looks, a shocking coldness to overthrow the tender heat that had been building within him.

He dropped Aramis' hand as if it were a hot brick, and Porthos very nearly did the same to Aramis.

Aramis' arm held steady for a moment, as if shocked Athos had let go, or shocked he had reached out in the first place, but then Aramis' arm dropped, too.

Athos averted his gaze, glancing at the doorway and breathing a sigh of relief when it filled with a nurse, a nurse who tried to scowl at Aramis and Porthos but failed when she smiled. "We didn't have the heart to move you."

That was what prompted Aramis to return to his side, his hand falling gently on Athos' shoulder. It burned, that faint pressure, burned with heat and betrayal, and Athos forced his words through his teeth, needing to escape his thoughts as well as his feelings, "Can I go?"

The nurse's expression became exasperated. "Most students would want the time off."

Porthos' chuckle seemed unbearably fond, and it only drove that knife of guilt further into Athos' stomach. "Athos ain't most students."

Athos took a deep breath and, in a manner he was ever so accustomed to, squashed everything down until the fire was banked, until it slumbered, waiting to be poked and roar back into life at the worst possible moment. "We're going."

Aramis gave the nurse his best smile, the one that flashed his teeth and said that he liked you. "You heard our captain."

Unsurprisingly, she blushed, and with Aramis' charm, Porthos' scowls, and Athos' most put-out drawl, they were outside the hospital within the hour – even if Athos was still in a pair of scrubs, he was considering it a victory. It was only when Athos was pulling his fencing jacket around his shoulders that he realised something.

They were flanking him, Porthos at his left, arms bared by Aramis' gilet and the thin t-shirt beneath. "Where's your jacket?"

Porthos' mouth opened and closed, and if Athos hadn't known him so well, he wouldn't have read the tiny signs that said Porthos was blanking. "Uh, must've left it in the dorms?"

Athos nodded, another stab of guilt for dragging them out here, and summoned a black cab from the ranks. The sooner he could get them home, the better he would feel.

Except that they seemed to be attached to him; in the cab, they all sat on the backseat, Aramis clinging to his uninjured side until Athos felt the urge to squirm. It must be because he had been in the hospital, it did strange things to people.

It made people realise worth.

What had they realised about him, he wondered, that he was an idiot with a supposed tactile aversion? That was becoming less prevalent as, for all he was almost being suffocated by Aramis leaning against his chest, he welcomed the pressure. Athos could pretend it was solely for their benefit, but he was taking from this, too.

Along his back, Porthos' arm stretched over like a headrest, his hand coming to rest against Aramis' head, fingers idly playing with his curls.

Athos felt it like a brand, felt their presence like a claim, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Because amidst the burning coals he tried so hard to hide, was a jealous, selfish thing that wanted to claim them both back, claim them  _properly_ , with his body between theirs, until his name was all they could say.

The name of a la Fère that  _shouldn't—_

"No, Athos," Aramis murmured, and once again it slammed him back to reality, the words seemingly torn from his own thoughts.

Athos was panting anxiously, Aramis' fingers had found his heart again, and it was frantic.

 _No._ Aramis was right, Athos was wrong, again.

By the time they made it back to campus, Athos' gait stumbling as they led him down the paths, his skin burning where they touched him, his thoughts tumbling around them and always ending with  _no._

Their concerned smiles had him wanting to frown. He didn't deserve them, not their tender attention nor their friendship, because all he wanted was to subvert it into something  _else_ , something hotter, something he dreamed of.

Something he should not want.

This war inside of him is bitter, it's terrible, it hurts, far more than the persistent ache along his side.

He wants to blame it on the drugs still in his system, because he wants to hold them close and push them away at the same time, wants them both to love him, even though it's crazy, even though he has nothing to give.

Even though it makes him an awful friend and an awful person to want something so bizarre.

Athos hates himself for the way his pulse stutters when Aramis turns to say something to Porthos and it brings his mouth an inch away from Athos' ear, hates the way his mind explodes with images of Aramis biting him there and Porthos holding him still.

Athos practically dove for his bed when they finally got there, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to sigh or scream when Porthos held Aramis back from joining him, growling about his bruise and how Aramis was a clinging monkey.

Aramis pouted, but went on the search for food, and it was Porthos who made the bed dip, hip almost brushing Athos' as he perched on the edge.

Athos could hear their voices every day for the rest of his life and it still wouldn't be enough, which is why he would remain silent, whilst within, he craved.

"Hey." Porthos' smile was worried. "You alright?"

Athos considered lying, but when Porthos' smile took on a knowing edge, he sighed, "No, you're going to try and keep me here for as long as possible."

"No 'try' about it, Athos, you're stayin' in bed."

"Then we have a problem, for I have no intention on being bedridden when there's work to do."

Porthos frowned, his smile disappearing. "You were in a fuckin' accident."

"At least I survived," Athos replied quietly, and didn't mean for it to sound so heart-breaking. Porthos' eyes widened slightly, realisation mingling with guilt as he remembered the true significance of car crashes, but Athos forged on. "I was an idiot, I won't let that idiocy affect anyone else."

Heavy footfalls echoed up the hallway, too loud for Aramis, and Porthos immediately rose up in a surprising amount of protectiveness. Athos wasn't sure what it meant when Porthos placed himself between the door and the bed, scowl looming on his brow.

Porthos relaxed only slightly when a furious Treville rounded the corner. "Idiot is an understatement."

Athos twitched, shame lacing its way through the guilt like a sneaking poison.

"Sir," Porthos said, and it was less of a soothe and more of a warning, the warning of a shepherd at a threat to his lamb, but he was silenced by Treville's glare as he came to stand at the foot of the bed, completely bypassing Porthos' wary stance.

It put Athos at a distinct disadvantage and Treville knew it, his voice low and livid, "You are meant to be the sensible one, Athos. I thought you of all people would be the last reason I'm woken up at god knows what hour to hear one of my students in his  _brand new fencing jacket_ had wandered into the road."

Athos bowed his head, the weight of Treville's disappointment hitting him far harder than the car had. It kept him mute, his jaw clenching painfully tight as he tried to shoulder the weight.

"Sir, that ain't fair," Porthos started, and bravely stood up against Treville's scathing stare. Porthos stood taller when Aramis skidded into the room to stand beside him, adding his frown to Porthos', forming a bigger barrier between Athos and Treville.

"He was looking for us, it's our fault," Aramis insisted, his hand stealing out to rest comfortingly on Athos' calf.

They might have been a soft breeze against a hurricane, but Athos would never forget it.

Treville sighed, his anger abating slightly to be replaced with exasperation. He eyed the two of them, a smile flittering over his features, and then he met Athos' shamed gaze. "This is on your shoulders, Athos, and you know that, no matter that these two would probably attack me if I insisted it."

Aramis' smile was smug, but it turned to one of concern when Athos simply nodded. "I know, any word from Richelieu?"

That was the crux of the matter, everything else Athos could do from the relative comfort of his own bed, but the fencing society needed him, and a captain always went down with his ship.

Treville's lip twitched into a snarl as he glanced out of the window, as if he could hear Richelieu's victory laugh from here. "No, but no doubt your injury will get out and he'll see it as time to prepare."

"Then we won't give him time, I'll be up tomorrow."

Treville gave him the evil eye, and it was perfectly matched in intensity as the one given to him by Porthos and Aramis. "Don't make this worse than it already is, Athos. Rest up, do what these two tell you to do."

It was Porthos' turn to be pleased, his grin at once satisfied and promising Athos a week of boring bed rest. "We'll look after 'im, sir."

"I know." Treville left with one more warning glare thrown Athos' way.

Athos slumped against his pillows, guilt and shame a suffocating miasma around his head. Aramis' hand was still on his calf, stroking distracting circles. "He shouldn't have said that, this isn't your fault, Athos."

Athos' sigh turned into a snap when he couldn't get his thoughts together because of Aramis' fingers against his leg. "He's right, I'm a fool, I've jeopardised the society."

Porthos snorted, completely unperturbed by his anger, but he did bat Aramis' hand away. "No, you ain't, it'll be three days, tops."

Athos scoffed, watching Porthos approach his bedside. "You have some very high hopes if you think I'm going to stay in bed for three days."

Porthos' frown was censorious but his movements gentle as he plumped Athos' pillows. "You 'eard what Treville said, you gotta do what we tell you."

Aramis looked up from where he was straightening the covers, and familiar mischief was glinting in his smile. "You wouldn't want to disobey Treville, would you?"

Athos rolled his eyes, desperately trying to ignore the way the coals of his heart were flickered over by flames. "If I can fence and choose not to, Treville will rain hellfire on me."

" _If_ you can fence," Porthos clarified, "an' when you can, you will. For now, sleep."

Athos made a face, and tried not to let it show how much he enjoyed being tucked in by these two, with Aramis at his feet – another palm sneaking onto his calf – and Porthos taking his jacket to hang it up in his cupboard.

Aramis snickered, "You're tidier in Athos' room than yours?"

Athos rolled away from them with a smile when Porthos tweaked Aramis' nose. "Did you get food?"

"No, I heard Treville's voice down the hall and came running."

Porthos made a satisfied noise. "Good, needed you 'ere." Aramis laughed happily, the sound quiet and comforting, and it tipped Athos over the edge into sleepiness. "Need my jacket," Porthos muttered, his voice just filtering through Athos' tired senses, "s'in your room."

There was a pause that felt uncertain. "Okay, I'll fetch it. Will you…?"

"I'll stay with 'im."

Another pause, this one filled with a tense sort of sigh. "Yes, okay, good."

Aramis' quiet footsteps disappeared, and then the silence was only broken by Porthos' breathing. Athos frowned into his pillow, something pinging at his brain, but then he slipped into sleep.

There was no silence in his dreams, but he craved it.

 

* * *

 

When Athos had bargained his way out of the hospital they had tried to make him take a wheelchair, and he had resolutely refused to. They had relented after a few not-so-subtle threats about a letter of complaint.

Unfortunately, his friends were not so easily cowed.

Athos had slept for most of the first day, mind dulled by pain and the need to sleep away the injury, waking up once in the dead of night to find Porthos sat on the floor, back against the bed and Aramis in his arms.

Heat had flared, drowsy and affectionate, and as if he had been fidgeting in the night, Porthos' hand reached up to find his and patted it for a few moments before he fell back to sleep.

Slept, guarded by the two who ruined him as they restored him.

They roped Constance in for the second day when Athos had angrily insisted that they get back to class and stop coddling him, unable to deal with the fiercely tender sway to his feelings when he woke up to find their three hands entwined.

Constance was worse than they were; at least they let him have a glass of wine with dinner. Constance read him the Riot Act and made him eat soup – soup! It was barbaric.

Athos wasn't given much time to think other than fretting about school work and the society, between that and constantly being talked to, he was practically climbing the walls without anything to distract him.

The three of them gathered on his bed on the second night, Porthos and Aramis either side of him, Constance at his feet, sewing a tear in his duvet cover. "I'm busy all day tomorrow, what about you two?"

Athos didn't let his hopeful smile show, and he certainly didn't let it grow when Aramis and Porthos shared sceptical glances. "I have a recital tomorrow," Aramis said, as Athos knew he would.

Athos could have answered for Porthos, but he didn't want to let his plan come to light too early. "Got a group study in the mornin', I skipped on Wednesday."

Athos kept quiet as they threw about ideas, and then he suggested, "If you insist on having me chaperoned, what about d'Artagnan?"

Constance raised an eyebrow a split second before they did. "I didn't know you had gotten that close."

"You hate people," Aramis put in unhelpfully.

Athos shrugged. "I like him well enough, he  _did_ save my life."

Constance gave him a probing look, but Porthos tilted his head to the side. "Sure, why not? He's a good kid."

"I'm not sure placing him with Athos is a good reward," Aramis teased, and simply leaned closer when Athos glowered at him.

Athos pretended not to notice.

And so it was set, d'Artagnan seemed a little too happy to come keep him company, and for all Athos was still discomfited by the boy's jubilance, by the memories he evoked, he  _did_ like him.

Athos especially liked the way it took ten minutes for Aramis and Porthos to say goodbye on the Friday morning, and another five minutes for Athos to bully d'Artagnan into sneaking him out.

D'Artagnan acted as if he had been asked to carry drugs through airport security, his nervous gaze constantly on the hallway, as if he expected one of Athos' three oppressors to pop out of the woodwork.

"Relax," Athos murmured, testing his weight and fairly pleased with his body's response. It ached, like hell, but it worked, and Athos was well used to dealing with pain, physical and emotional. No one, except maybe Aramis and Porthos, could tell that he was almost wincing with every step. "They're all busy."

D'Artagnan still sped up as they passed their rooms, muttering things under his breath until Athos was forced to laugh. "This isn't funny, Athos! They're going to kill me!"

"Nonsense," Athos gritted out when d'Artagnan bumped him slightly, "I'll protect you."

D'Artagnan's smile was a small one, but it evoked one of Athos', too.

Athos had to promise to text him if he wanted to go back, and d'Artagnan made a valiant effort of describing how he would burst into Athos' lecture hall and drag him out if he needed it. Athos gave the boy a stern look, but he chuckled in pleased surprise as he limped to a chair.

He really did like the boy.

Athos lost himself in _'Henry V',_ eyes drooping shut a good few times before he realised that he had slept through to the next lecture and everyone was staring at him.

He had wondered why the lecturer had started referring to Sartre instead of Shakespeare.

Panic gripped him briefly, but then he cast it aside in favour of simply getting home and into bed - although he would have to save d'Artagnan from his oppressors' wrath, first.

Athos managed a proud stride out of the lecture hall and then collapsed against a wall when he was free from curious looks. He reached into his pocket for his phone and wasted a few seconds smacking his head against the wall when he remembered that it was on his bedside table.

It seemed he would be walking home alone.

Athos stumbled into the bitterly fresh air and eyed the distance to The Garrison, the short walk seeming like miles when he had to keep stopping to breathe and focus on not blacking out.

The dorm door swung open and Athos with it, taking deep breaths to try and appear some semblance of fine for when he encountered the Spanish Inquisition.

Even Constance was there as he rounded the corner, seemingly seconds away from grabbing a cringing d'Artagnan by the ear as Aramis held Porthos back from shaking the boy.

They were gathered at the end of their hallway, Athos' door wide open and glaringly empty, and he realised that d'Artagnan must have been refusing to say absolutely anything about his whereabouts. His affection for the boy jumped up a few notches and he gave a short, pained laugh.

Attention whipped to him so fast he felt almost pinned to the wall by it, stunned eyes that morphed into either fury or concern. Porthos was the fury, growling, "Where've you been?" as Aramis was the concern, rushing forward to slide under Athos' arm and practically drag him to his room.

"I'm not an invalid." It came out more tired than he wanted, and his case wasn't helped by how Aramis let him go and he immediately fell into bed.

It was a lost cause now, so Athos simply crawled into his pillows and glared balefully at their gathering around his bed.

Constance planted her feet in front of him, hands on her hips as d'Artagnan creeped to the back of the room, relieved to not be the centre of attention anymore. "They were worried sick about you, why didn't you say where you were going?"

Porthos was still furious, but he seemed to calm a little when Aramis stood at his side, a barrier _against_  Athos, this time. "You knew we'd be busy today, didn't you?"

Athos managed as good a shrug as he could whilst cushioned by pillows. "You wouldn't have let me go."

Constance threw her hands up in exasperation, something she did a lot in his presence. "And so they shouldn't! For God's sake, you were in hospital two days ago, Athos."

"Yes, and now I'm not, and so I'll return to my schedule. They would keep me there if it was important."

"You would have sneaked out of there, too, don't pretend that you wouldn't." Constance turned on d'Artagnan who looked up worriedly. "And you, what were you thinking?"

"Don't blame him, I was going to go with or without  _permission_ ," Athos said the last a little scathingly, earning the winces he received, and added, "d'Artagnan helped me there and kept an eye on me. It was you who kept him from helping me home."

As one, their angry glances at d'Artagnan turned apologetic, and d'Artagnan raised a tired hand of acceptance. Athos dragged his fingers through his hair and made a note to buy the boy a drink. "All I care about is going to class and starting the fencing society."

Constance's voice was layered with shock, "Athos, you can't be serious?"

"I'm deadly serious." Athos deliberately caught all of their eyes. "I've been out for days, and I can't prepare with all of you crowding me.

Constance's lips firmed to a deadly thin line. "Fine, d'Artagnan, let's go."

Athos took an exhausted breath. "No, all of you, go."

Aramis gave Porthos a worried glance, but Porthos grit his teeth and dragged Aramis out the door, Constance following after as d'Artagnan gave Athos a weary smile goodbye.

They didn't go far, it sounded as if they retreated to Porthos' room at the entrance of their hallway – Porthos claimed it was so he could be their bouncer, a role which felt uncomfortably real right now, but keeping Athos in, not strangers out.

Porthos did that, too, though, because when Athos woke after a snatched hour of thankfully dreamless sleep, he heard Porthos' voice raised in alarm. "Hey, wait!"

Athos shifted in his bed, craning his neck to see who had drawn them from whatever they were doing in Porthos' room, and saw Aramis with his back to him, aggressively standing in the way. "He doesn't want to see anyone."

A gentle giggle floated down the hallway, one that shot Athos back a decade. "Is he climbing the walls yet?"

It surprised a laugh out of him, at the depth of affection in those words, and Athos caught the sight of Ninon beyond Aramis' protective stance. She lifted the books in her arms. "I've brought him homework."

"You don't have any classes together," Aramis said suspiciously.

Athos could just about see the frown that crossed Ninon's brow, and then she laughed again, this one a little less gentle. "It's Latin."

Porthos snorted in amusement, his voice significantly warmer than Aramis'. "Only Athos wants homework when he's sick, eh?"

Ninon gave Porthos a smile, but she was still watching Aramis, and even Athos could see that Aramis' body language was ten kinds of  _back off_.

Athos didn't understand the tension, but he knew how relieved he felt at seeing Ninon, so he called out, his voice hoarse with a lack of water. Porthos came in immediately, brandishing a glass, and sharing a small smile with Ninon as he stood aside to let her in.

Aramis glowered in the doorway, muttering something to Porthos after he had fluffed Athos' pillows again.

"If you're going to be rude, at least close the door," Athos called when Ninon stiffened at whatever the comment had been. Aramis looked up guiltily, but it was Porthos who sighed and pulled the door shut, leaving Athos alone for the first time since he had left the hospital.

Ninon relaxed, her shoulders loosening as she left the books on his table and settled beside him, her weight barely dipping the bed. "I would have come sooner but I only just found out."

Athos frowned, already losing the brightness from her arrival. "Did nobody tell you?"

Ninon fidgeted, fiddling with the gold ring on her little finger as she always did when she was uneasy. Athos subconsciously rubbed his thumb along his own.

"No, I saw Constance giving d'Artagnan a talking to as I headed to class, I wasn't even sure what building you were in."

"So it was Constance who told you?" Athos asked, silently marvelling at how easily they slipped into their old friendship, sharing truths despite the gap in their lives.

Ninon almost imperceptibly bit her lip. "No, d'Artagnan did, and Constance didn't seem very pleased when I called him a hero."

"I know, I'm not quite sure what's going on there."

Ninon's hesitant smile turned stronger. "Aside from his huge crush on her?"

Athos snorted, "It's sickening, isn't it?"

"Sickeningly adorable." Ninon eyed him with some amused scepticism. "Come on then, tell me what happened."

Athos exhaled heavily, pleased to find someone who wasn't trying to rip his head off for once. "I was a fool, if you must know. I couldn't find Aramis and Porthos, I went looking."

Ninon's face changed, something concerned and deliberative darkening her bright features. "Where were they?"

Athos blinked and tried to recall, the details fuzzy even without the alcohol and pain medication. "I'm not sure, it wasn't important." He linked his fingers with hers, pleased with himself that he could manage that simple touch. "Thank you for coming."

"And have you fussing away like a particularly grouchy Miss Havisham? You forget, I remember what you're like, _Comte_."

Athos winced at the childhood nickname, the 'Comte' to her 'imp', his too close to the truth to bring anything except more guilt. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry." Ninon's smile said that she wasn't, but she pushed a soothing hand through his hair anyway, like a mother would do, like Athos' had not. "Do you want anything?"

"To get out of here without everyone acting as if I had stabbed them in the back?"

Ninon matched his smirk and glanced at the door. "Think you've lost your touch?"

"There's no clematis to climb here," he chuckled softly, rubbing his chest when it ached, and he wasn't sure if it was the bruise or his heart.

"Injured soldier," Ninon murmured fondly, and patted the pile of books. "I really did bring you Latin homework, it seemed wrong to break tradition."

Athos seethed through his teeth, but it was mostly affectionate, " _Crudelis_." Ninon laughed delightedly and handed him his phone, giving his hand one last squeeze when he thumbed it open and saw her number there. "I'd forgotten what a little thief you were."

"You can text me instead of getting d'Artagnan into trouble," she said, completely unabashed at stealing his property. "Poor thing looked ready to sink into the ground."

"I could hardly protect him from here, could I?" Ninon gave him a considering stare, heard the trace of guilt that led to something gargantuan. Athos ducked his head, refusing to talk about it, refusing to acknowledge what Ninon had already worked out.

D'Artagnan was swiftly becoming fixed in Athos' life, and the boy was no mere recruit, he had replaced something far more painful than that.

Ninon knew both of those chapters.

"I'll keep an eye on him," she said finally, a doting if concerned smile on her face. "It's the least I can do after he saved your life."

Athos wondered why they were the only two who seemed to think that.

Ninon opened his door before he could ponder it. "Porthos?" Athos stiffened, eyeing her warily. Aramis was hot on Porthos' heels, both frowning at her evil smile as she pointed at Athos' bedside. "He has homework, feel free to call me if you need a sitter."

Porthos' grin was completely surprised as Athos growled, " _Et tu,_ Brute? You were never going to sneak me out, were you?"

"Of course not, you need to heal," Ninon replied primly and winked at him. " _Bona fide, carissimus._ " She met Porthos' impressed gaze and murmured, "Good luck, boys."

Ninon floated away, deaf to Athos' curses in both English and Latin, and her disappearance was followed by Porthos', "I quite like 'er."

"Everybody does," Athos murmured happily, and glared at the familiar books Ninon had left. "Will you tell her if I don't read these?"

"Yeah," Porthos said immediately, and chuckled when Athos reached for one. "How come you do what she tells you?"

"It's ingrained," Athos replied distractedly, barely noticing the way Aramis slipped closer under Porthos' arm. Athos did notice the way he wasn't as affected by their presence, as if Ninon's soft exuberance was still keeping him in check. "Her pout is almost as pretty as Aramis'."

Athos blinked at the open page, wondering what on earth had possessed him to say that.

When he looked up, it was to see two frowns aimed his way, and Athos felt a little more light fade away. He coughed to hide the dying of his idiotic hope that they would stay with him, forever, keep him guided when he felt lost. "You know what I mean."

Porthos hummed in dubious acknowledgement, and then tugged at Aramis' shoulders. Aramis resisted enough that it drew Athos' gaze to see something like vulnerable confusion chase its way across his face.

 _Idiot_ , Athos chanted in his head. He was an idiot, and he had promised to not let his idiocy affect anything else; least of all his best friends, because he shouldn't want to drag them into his bed when it would ruin their friendship.

Instead, Athos looked away, as if his hands weren't itching, as if his bed didn't feel empty, and waited for Porthos' door to click before he breathed again.

They did not return for a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ow. As always, find me on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


	9. Exercitus Sine Duce Corpus est Sine Spiritu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An army without a leader is a body without spirit.
> 
> Riddle me this, dear readers, would you prefer translations of my sporadic foreign languages within the dialogue, in the notes, or would you prefer none at all?

> Too close, too close for comfort, please, not again.  
>  Too close, too close to know just when to say, "When?"
> 
> Be firm, be fair, be sure, beware.  
>  On your guard, take care, while there's such temptation.
> 
> \- Sammy Davis Jr. ' _Too Close for Comfort_ '

Time brought a bitter bite to the wind and a bitter bite to Athos' voice. They kept him in bed for another day – Aramis plied him with wine, it was a battle Athos wasn't trying to win – but by the weekend he was overseeing the practice courts, his new recruits gleefully poking at each other with their épées.

As Captain, he was allowed a broody stand on the side-lines, pointing out errors, calling out patterns. It was tiring, not being able to do anything, and exhausting simply being on his feet.

Not that he had much of a chance trying to hide his bruises, he couldn't go an hour without someone checking up on him – it was like having a particularly concerned shadow, or a pair of shadows – but that changed when Treville tugged Aramis and Porthos on their attendance in class.

They had some leeway, what with Athos' injury – and Treville knowing just how ornery he was – but when they were so behind that they had to start skipping fencing practice just to catch up on their work, Athos was ready to rip someone's head off.

It took him six minutes to persuade Ninon to help him teach, and another sixteen to persuade Aramis and Porthos that she was only stepping in when they weren't there. For some reason, that argument didn't appease them, and only when Athos made a scathing comment about having a moment to breathe did they back down.

Athos had stared helplessly at the door after he had ordered them out, not knowing what to do about the ache in his chest, the yawning chasm of loneliness that had opened around his heart, because it shouldn't even  _be_ there.

Aramis returned within the hour, a French play clutched between his fingers, eyes hopeful that Athos would help him rehearse – which, naturally, he did, if only to soothe himself with the sound of Aramis' voice.

Porthos followed shortly after with a pack of cards and some beer, and somehow Athos found himself tucked up, with the pair of them at the foot of his bed, arguing softly about bottle versus can as Athos drifted off to sleep.

The ache subsided, but the loneliness got worse; like dehydration in the middle of the ocean.

It was subtle, their affection, designed to slip under his shields, and Athos allowed it under the guise of still being injured.

It was becoming a played out excuse, and he knew it.

Sometime soon, he would have to fall back into his old self, into the son of a la Fère, once again deny their affection, and it would be heralded by his stepping onto the fencing courts, épée in hand.

It would be a bittersweet moment.

D'Artagnan's first article for the newspaper came and went, the boy's pride at seeing it online was nothing compared to his delighted beam when Athos said that his writing hadn't needed any editing.

The boy received a few called out greetings and congratulations as they wandered through campus, and Athos received a gruff commendation from Treville for bringing d'Artagnan into his "inner circle".

Athos wrinkled his nose at that, but he took the praise willingly, needing it to balm his emotional bruises as the physical ones finally started to fade.

D'Artagnan settled into the routine for publishing better than all of them, his articles showed up in Athos' inbox before even Constance's did, and soon enough Athos was passing a few of his extra duties onto the eager boy, who always watched in fascination when Athos sent the final draft to Treville on Sunday night.

Athos didn't deny that it felt nice to be seen as someone worth imitating, and he couldn't hide his smile when Ninon called to say, "Your puppy's gaining a following."

Athos had leaned back in his chair, looking over the well-written article that had appeared in his inbox at the first stroke of Monday. It was d'Artagnan's fourth, marking it a month since the accident, and Athos let his gaze drift to his épée on the desk. "Training, Tuesday?"

A sigh answered him. " _Docendo discimus,_ I know."

Athos snorted in surprise. "By teaching, we learn. Did I tell you that?"

"You're thinking it." She hung up when he laughed, leaving him to tentatively prod the bruise along his side and make a decision born of itchy feet and itchier hands.

His return to the courts was nigh.

Athos' first day with his épée in his palm felt like coming home, felt like victory, felt like adrenaline racing through his muscles – which went some way towards dulling the residual pain. Demonstrations had fallen to Ninon – who consistently complained before every session and then strode upon the courts like an Amazon, schooling recruits and experienced fencers alike.

D'Artagnan's face lit with relief when he saw Athos kitted up, and Athos wondered how strange it must have been for the boy to not see him at the helm.

Stranger still without his two shadows at his flanks.

Aramis and Porthos were happy to take his commands when it came to fencing, but in regards to his health they acted as if he were fragile china. Ninon, however, encouraged him to test his limits, saying that the sooner he was better, the sooner she could spend her mornings sleeping in.

So, naturally, Ninon was who challenged him first.

Athos' legs wobbled for a moment, but she called him _C_ _omte_ and grinned when he growled. It was a friendly bout, but he would never tire of having his own moves used against him. Ninon bade him be quicker, smarter, and he needed that, needed that distraction when his mind was still lingering on waking up with Aramis curled against his side and Porthos sprawled over his feet.

Athos had held his breath when Aramis' eyelids had fluttered, but Aramis simply smiled upon seeing him, sleepily brushing their noses together before crawling off for a shower.

Athos had run, scrambling for the courts with heat in his veins that had only cooled when he drew his épée.

He had regained his crown, and nobody was happier about that, than Ninon.

She hung up her helmet with a grateful sigh and rested a palm over his heart, scowling when he implied that she would be joining the team. "I won't miss your first meet, Athos, but I'll be cheering from the stands.  _Ad finem._ "

Athos covered her hand with his, his smile crooked. "To the end. I would expect nothing less."

D'Artagnan gave her a mock salute when she waved at him, and Athos echoed the boy's sigh when Ninon left. It was nice to hear someone other than himself spout Ninon's praises, but d'Artagnan's idolatry was met with strange silences whenever they gathered in Athos' rooms for dinner.

Constance, Athos might have understood – boyfriend or no, no one liked to be overshadowed – but Aramis and Porthos confused him. His instincts told him that they were worried about being replaced in the fencing society, but that was absurd, even if having them so close was painfully blissful, he could no more lose them than he could lose his hands.

Porthos his left, Aramis his right, that's the way it always was.

That's the way it was when he woke up after a bad night, that's the way it was when they returned to the courts, and that's the way it was when they stood before Treville's desk a week later. Them, either side of him, where they were meant to be.

Treville looked him dead in the eye. "There's word from the Guards."

"Bugger," Porthos muttered, and Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose.

Athos simply took a deep breath. "When?"

Treville glanced at what looked like a piece of aged parchment that had been tied with a ribbon. "The first Sunday of November."

Aramis flinched. "So soon? Athos is still bruised—"

Athos held up a hand and met Treville's steely gaze with his own. "Tell Richelieu we'll be ready."

Treville screwed the parchment up and gave him a satisfied nod, ignoring the uncomfortable shuffling either side of him. They would be ready, Athos would make sure of it.

He would not be bested by anything; not an injury, not the Guards, and not by the betraying warmth that jumped along his veins when he was, for the last time, tucked into bed.

Athos was king again, with all the responsibility that brought with it.

 

* * *

 

Challenge day dawned sunny, at odds to Athos' heartless wake up calls. He threw water at Porthos, tempted Aramis with scrambled eggs, and told d'Artagnan there was an ice cream truck outside.

At eight in the morning.

The boy's disappointed face, dressed only in a blanket clutched around his thin shoulders, was enough to give Athos his first smile of the day.

He poked and prodded them all the way to the courts, sprinkling praise in with his punishments, whipping them into shape before the Guards arrived.

And  _merde_ , did they arrive.

It took a maximum of eight minutes before the two colleges were straining at their leashes, and once Treville and Richelieu had interceded, a further three before the two coaches were also at each other's throats.

They led by example, pretending not to hate each other, épées practically screaming to be drawn, and if Athos wasn't more concerned with d'Artagnan's footwork, he would have been the first on the side-lines to call for a fight.

Not that he condoned rivalries, of course.

Athos was summoned in one jerky hand-motion, standing at Treville's flank as he and Richelieu spat at each other like territorial cats.

"La Fère," Richelieu said dispassionately, attention calculating as he looked for weaknesses. "I see you're up and about."

 _Unfortunately,_ hung in the air, so Athos simply tilted his head to the side, allowing Treville to answer grumpily, "The Musketeers are made of sterner stuff."

Richelieu raised an eyebrow. "Is that why I keep seeing Louis fluttering around Anne?" Treville growled something about lovesick fools under his breath, and Richelieu's smile filled with petty victory. "But I didn't come here to tell you that your pet is bothering my prefect, no."

Athos resisted the urge to snarl in Louis' defence – he didn't even like him that much, but his college's honour was at stake, here – and stared impassively at the man who seemed to make it his job to piss Treville off. "No?"

"No, I came for a, ah, friendly challenge _._ " Richelieu's geniality was so forced it was almost diamond bright.

" _Friendly?_ " Treville quoted back, dubiously eyeing the many Guards sizing up the Musketeers, who were making no efforts to hide their distaste.

"Indeed," Richelieu murmured, feigning ignorance of the tension around them. "In fact, we won't even keep score." Athos and Treville were perfect mirrors of disbelief, whereas Richelieu's smile was saccharine sweet and dripped poison. "I swear."

Athos shared one glance with Treville, and was dismissed with an expression that warned him to keep his guard up.

Athos nodded, and as he walked away, just about caught Treville's sly, "Scared?"

Richelieu's laugh would haunt his nightmares, he was sure of it.

Almost immediately, Athos' warning signals went off, and he instinctively looked for Aramis and Porthos, whether to keep them safe or have them keep him safe, he wasn't sure.

They were where he left them, but everything looked wrong. Porthos was standing between Aramis and d'Artagnan, a restraining grip on each of their shoulders as the bristling pair glared at the stranger in front of them.

The stranger that stood far too close to Constance's side.

Athos scowled, didn't he have enough to deal with today without Constance's boyfriend riling everyone up? Athos almost paused when he saw the épée at the stranger's hip, but it was only when he spoke that Athos' confidence flickered.

"Ah, you must be the great Athos I've been hearing about." Cold eyes taunted him, but it was the French accent that had Athos bumping his shoulder with Aramis', seeking the feeling of  _now_. "Constance has told me  _so_ much about you."

Athos could have choked, somewhere between fear and loathing, somewhere between the past and the present, somewhere where his past could all so easily  _wreck_  his present. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Athos gritted out, grimacing when his accent strengthened at the presence of another.

"Jacques Bonacieux," he held out a hand that gripped Athos' far too harshly and lingered far too long.

"I can't say that I know the name," he replied, refusing to be threatened, not when his best friends stood at his back.

Bonacieux's smile turned malicious. "Yes, well, we can't all be famous, can we, Athos?"

Athos placed the accent at about the same time he was tempted to let d'Artagnan loose so he could maul the overbearing jackass. "I'm surprised news even reaches Toulouse, it's so very… backwards, there."

That earned him a sneer, but only to cover the nervous flicker of an eyelid as Constance stared in shock at Athos' rudeness. Athos considered the battle won, Bonacieux did not, but Athos was spared both an outraged reply and Constance's affront by Treville clearing his throat.

Richelieu interjected, and the talking went on like that for a minute, both interrupting the other, until the general feel was 'test each other out for weaknesses but be subtle about it'.

 _Friendly_ , right.

Athos was drawn away once or twice, which kept him safe from Constance even as she glared at him from across the room.

He considered apologising, he really did, until he made a circuit past them and heard Bonacieux criticising Constance for wanting to wield an épée.

Athos arrived just in time to slip in front of a frothing d'Artagnan, and trusted an angry-eyed Porthos to keep a swearing-in-Spanish Aramis under control.

"Take mine, Constance," Athos offered easily, nodding when she smiled gratefully at him, but they both froze when Bonacieux put a hand out to stop them and scoffed.

"She doesn't have the muscle, most women don't."

Athos' gaze cut to Constance, and he almost reeled when she simply flushed and withdrew her hand.

An enraged squawk was Aramis, a scathing mumble was d'Artagnan, and Athos barely lifted his palm to quiet them, his own voice dangerously calm, "Are you implying that women can't fence, or that they shouldn't?"

Bonacieux shrugged. "Both."

Constance's jaw was so tight that Athos could see the bone against her skin, but still she remained silent, and they stared at her in confused horror.

Bonacieux looked between them all and laughed patronisingly, "Wait, don't tell me you have women on your team?"

"Not for lack of trying," Athos replied dryly.

"Why?" Bonacieux asked in genuine amazement. "They would never be as good, épée is a man's weapon."

Porthos twitched and it gave Aramis enough give to jerk from under his hand and lock eyes with Athos, silently yelling,  _why the fuck are you letting this go?_

Athos sighed and glanced at the ceiling,  _it isn't my place to interfere._

Aramis glared at him and mouthed,  _if you don't, then I will._

Athos raised a hand in a placating gesture and returned his attention to Bonacieux, who was trying to give d'Artagnan pointers that he really didn't need. Athos' ire rose higher at the implication that he couldn't teach, and stepped in between them, blocking Bonacieux's view of a furious d'Artagnan.

"Tell me, my friend," Athos asked idly, and hated using the term, "would you be opposed to a little match against a friend of ours?"

"I suppose," Bonacieux replied wearily, as if he had exhausted himself by doing nothing except disparage women everywhere. "Who is he?"

" _She,_  actually," Athos clarified, and took dark delight in Bonacieux's shock.

"You can't be serious?"

"I don't joke about fencing, Bonacieux, you would do well to learn that," he said icily, and smiled to lessen the intensity.

The way the others were looking at him said that perhaps it had made him more threatening.

" _Une minute, s'il vous pla _î_ t._" Athos gave Aramis a warning glance to not get into trouble whilst he was gone, and threw one at d'Artagnan and Porthos for good measure before disappearing on the hunt for his golden goose.

He hadn't seen her yet, but he knew she was there, as always, to the end.

Ninon was in the stands, blonde hair artfully upswept so that small curls popped becomingly around her cheeks. Athos placed his hand on her forearm to draw her attention, and couldn't help but smile when she turned.

"I have a favour to ask of you,  _ma cherie._ " Athos took a surprised step back when Ninon's friends all eyed him carefully. "Ah, if you aren't busy?"

Ninon laughed and hooked an arm with his, leading him away from the interested looks. "You're going to lose your foreboding charm if you aren't careful."

"I always called you that." Athos refused to dignify  _foreboding charm_ with anything other than bewilderment.

"Yes, to  _me,_ when we were young; here you are Athos, editor of the paper, captain of the fencing team, and brooding bad boy."

"I am  _not_ a bad boy," he insisted in surprise, and scowled when she laughed. "Imp."

Ninon's smile was teasing. "That's better. Now, a favour?"

Athos cleared his mind and surreptitiously walked them at a safe distance. "You see tall, pale, and ridiculous, over there, the one that d'Artagnan's trying to kill with his mind? That's Constance's boyfriend."

"What? The one that's been staring at Aramis?" Ninon frowned when he did. "Never mind, go on."

He would have asked what she meant but time was of the essence, even Porthos had placed a commanding hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder by now. "I need you to spar with him for me."

"No."

Athos had known that she would deny immediately, so he nodded sombrely and patted her forearm where it rested over his. "Fair enough, I apologise for interfering."

"Wait, why me?"

"He doesn't think that women can fence."

Ninon's golden brows drew together instantaneously and her fingers tightened almost painfully on his arm, fire flaring to life in her eyes as Athos had known that it would. "Give me your épée."

"Gladly," he murmured, and handed it over without preamble. She snatched his helmet from his hip and stalked to the changing room.

If Athos returned to the group with a saunter in his step, it was apparently noticed, because Aramis, Porthos, and Bonacieux watched him approach, three pairs of eyes dark and intense.

It was only when Ninon returned that those three pairs of eyes widened in astonishment, gazes fixated on Athos' signature weapon in her nimble hands.

"Ninon de Larroque," she said, voice sharp and anger glorious.

Bonacieux scoffed once he had gotten over his shock. "Your captain bids you challenge me?"

Her teeth bared, expression disparaging as she took an affronted Bonacieux in with one glance. "Athos is not my captain, he's my friend."

"You're not on the team?"

"I don't need to be to teach you a lesson in manners," she said primly, and pirouetted on one heel to stalk to a free court.

Athos folded his arms with a less-than-gentlemanly smirk. "I'm going to enjoy this."

Bonacieux snarled at him as he shoved his mask over his head and shoulder-checked him as he passed. Constance hurried after him, completely ignoring d'Artagnan's call and shrugging off Aramis' hand.

Porthos dragged a palm over his face. "You've done it now." 

Athos let his shoulders rise and fall as Porthos stood at his left. "What happened?"

Aramis appeared at his other side, glare fixed on Bonacieux's back as the pair stretched. "He approached me, complimented my footwork, I didn't even know who he was."

Porthos shifted from foot to foot. "Saw 'im from across the room, thought he was threatenin' Aramis."

Athos glanced over in surprise. "Why?"

Porthos' brow furrowed slightly. "Dunno, just set my hackles up, he was standin' too close."

"He was being sickeningly nice to me, actually," Aramis groused, as if frustrated Bonacieux had given such a good impression at the beginning. "Then Constance appeared, she seemed surprised to see him."

D'Artagnan stepped up next to Aramis, brow furrowed. "I thought that, but why not tell her he was part of their fencing society?"

"I bought a £50 bottle of wine the other day," Athos supplied, and when he received three bored looks, explained, "I knew you wouldn't be interested so I didn't tell you."

Porthos weighed his head to the side. "Fair point."

"But it's not that she's not interested, she's clearly interested, she wanted to try an épée."

Athos conceded to d'Artagnan's point, even if it was made a little bitterly.

Aramis looked up suddenly. " _How_ much?"

Porthos snorted when Athos smirked and jerked his head behind them. "You can have some later. Come, I'm simply dying to see this."

They followed him in silence, Porthos frowning when he saw Ninon stand up against Bonacieux. "She's got guts, I'll give 'er that."

D'Artagnan's attention finally shifted from Constance. "Ninon? She'll whip him into the dust!"

Athos shared a smile with the boy, just barely noticing the almighty scowl that was brewing on Aramis' forehead. "Don't worry," Athos assured him, wishing he could rest a palm on his shoulder as Porthos would have done. "She won't lose."

Aramis wiped his expression into neutrality. "You're so sure?"

"Of course, look at her, she's quicker even than I, that twist of her wrist will win her this point. She's wonderful." Athos' lip twitched. "I trained her, after all."

Aramis had taken Athos' praise as an excuse to walk behind him and stand at Porthos' side, his scowl returning when he muttered, "Why don't you marry her if you like her so much?"

"I almost did," Athos confided with a distracted laugh.

There was a deafening silence and Athos dragged his eyes from Ninon's fantastic form to see Aramis staring open-mouthed at him.

"What did you just say?"

"Is that so strange?" Athos asked in amused confusion. "Our parents were friends, we liked each other."

"Why didn't you?" Porthos asked, and there was an intensity behind his frown that Athos didn't understand.

Athos shrugged and turned back to Ninon, his eyes following the graceful line of her arm as he lied through his teeth, "I went back to Paris."

Aramis leaned into Porthos, and Porthos lightly brushed Athos' arm.

It was so much more complicated than that.

 

* * *

 

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 was making pinkie promises to make-friends-make-friends-never-ever-break-friends, and 10 was calling curses on your enemy's descendants for the next 13 generations, Treville and Richelieu were markedly high.

In actuality, the only thing that was stopping them from launching at each other over the high bar table, was exactly that.

The high bar table, the one laden with glasses, empty versions of the ones clutched in their hands, Treville sniping Richelieu on his dress sense (honestly, Armand, it's practically a top hat and tails), and Richelieu sniffing haughtily as he loudly recounted the day's bouts (what was it, five my way?  _I thought we weren't counting._ Weren't you?).

Athos briefly considered separating them, like a parent would do to their children, but only a fool would step between those sets of teeth. Instead, Athos focused on propping Aramis up, who, upon entering the bar for some friendly drinks (there was that word again), had downed five shots and promptly claimed Athos as a leaning post.

It was making Porthos laugh, at least.

"I'm just saying, he seemed shifty," d'Artagnan said for what must have been the hundredth time.

Athos sighed, obliging Aramis by taking a sip of his offered drink, something sickly sweet and garnished with an umbrella. "For all his faults, he's done nothing we can actively call him out on."

He had to brace his other leg when Aramis pushed against his hip to glare, his expression matching d'Artagnan's in its affront. "He's a bastard!" they chorused, nodding firmly at each other.

Athos rolled his eyes. "You must admit that you're both biased."

D'Artagnan pouted. "And you aren't? She's your friend, too."

"Of course, but I.. I can't judge her on her actions, she's strong enough to leave him were she truly unhappy." D'Artagnan wasn't pleased, so Athos voiced a niggling concern. "For a moment, I thought he recognised me from my time in France – suffice to say that would have been nigh-on life-ruining. But aside from that, I won't deny that he seemed a little, ah…"

"Camp?" Porthos supplied.

Athos winced. "Not the word I would have used, but it was something that Ninon said – or, perhaps, didn't say."

Aramis made an angry noise for some reason, and Porthos leaned forward to chuck his chin. "He was starin' at you pretty intently, that what Ninon noticed?"

Athos hummed an agreement, his mouth inching upwards when Aramis looked up in something torn between horror and delight. Suddenly, Aramis pushed himself away, not meeting their calls with anything other than, "I'll be right back!"

There was an absence along Athos' side now, for even though the contact was almost painful, he silently gloried in Aramis' warm weight, using Aramis' level of alcohol intake as an excuse to hold him close.

Without him, with only his whispering desires, Athos hated himself.

"How much d'you wanna bet Aramis is gonna pull tonight?" Porthos asked suddenly, closing the gap Aramis had left until they stood as a triangle.

Athos' eyes betrayed him, he glanced at Porthos and away again, refusing to hold his gaze when he knew his cheeks had flushed. Aramis was never  _not_  dressed to impress, but he only had about two buttons done up on his shirt, fencing jacket bared to show a sinful amount of tan chest.

"How could he not?" Athos took a fortifying gulp of his beer.

D'Artagnan groaned tiredly. "I just want a quiet night, no drama."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "You, who have spent the entire day waiting for Bonacieux to slip up?"

"No, I mean, it's just…" D'Artagnan slumped. "It's as you said, we can't do anything, there's no proof."

Porthos grinned at Athos over the boy's head, laying an encouraging palm on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Everythin' works out in the end. Sometimes you gotta do somethin', and sometimes you just wait."

Athos scoffed, but raised his glass in a salute when Porthos scowled good-naturedly at him. Things did  _not_ always work out, no matter what was done, but perhaps the poor boy needed some hope right now.

Athos knew better than most that love, of all things, did not always work out.

Aramis slammed against Athos' side, hauled back at the very last moment by Porthos grabbing the back of his jacket. It hung off Aramis' arms, his shirt completely undone and his curls even messier than usual.

It was only when Athos steadied himself, one hand linked with Aramis' to keep from falling, that he noticed Aramis' grin. The grin, and the dark mark on his neck.

Aramis looked over his shoulder, and even d'Artagnan's eyes widened, Porthos stiffening as he locked onto what was definitely a suck mark. "Where the fuck d'you get that?"

"No need to be jealous, dear," Aramis joked slyly. "And it was from a mutual friend of ours. Or, should I say, a mutual friend of ours and Constance."

D'Artagnan choked on his drink, spraying it everywhere, mostly over Aramis. "Bonacieux is  _gay?_ "

Athos jabbed him in the ribs just as Porthos kicked him in the shin. "Keep your voice down."

"Why?" D'Artagnan asked petulantly, trying to rub both bruises at once. "It's not like it's a big deal."

Aramis over-dramatically wiped liquid from his hands. "It is when you have a girlfriend who thinks you're straight."

"And if you don't want anyone to know," Athos added quietly, and Aramis and Porthos looked at each other briefly.

D'Artagnan, for once, noticed it and then met Athos' eye strangely as he muttered, "Shouldn't go around sucking guys' necks then."

Aramis' eyebrows raised as Porthos coughed a sheepish laugh, "Well. From the mouths of babes."

Athos couldn't have been more uncomfortable as he was right then, so he changed the focus of attention onto something far more interesting. "Did he just lunge for you?"

Aramis' shot him daggers when Porthos frowned and said, "Actually, that's a good point."

"No, of course not—"

"—So you encouraged him?" Athos interrupted idly, earning another glare when Porthos' frown deepened.

"No. Well…" Aramis trailed off awkwardly before throwing his hands in the air. "Oh, come on, I had to find out. Didn't think he'd go straight for my neck but, hey, everyone does."

Athos winced. Of all the provoking things to say.

There was a low rumbling noise that seemed to be coming from a furious Porthos, and Athos realised that perhaps he had erred slightly. Even d'Artagnan was picking up on the bad vibes and giving Athos a ' _do something!'_  look.

Athos sighed and leaned forward to hook an arm around Aramis' waist, saying dryly, "You could turn anyone, Aramis; I don't think that's much to go on."

Porthos had settled slightly now that Aramis was safely back in their collective grasp, and they all took a small sigh of relief.

That could have gotten ugly.

Naturally, it had to, because Bonacieux then took that exact moment to wander past and gods-all-be if his gaze didn't stick to Aramis' ass way longer than was appropriate.

Aramis, who couldn't see his new admirer, could tell what was happening from their reactions, and judging by the way Porthos' fist crushed his empty can, shit was about to go down.

There was a soft sigh, and then Aramis fell limp against Athos, prompting him to brace one foot as Aramis' arms came around his waist loosely. Athos tried to look down but Aramis had rested his head in the crook of Athos' neck and was giving limpet eyes at Porthos.

Athos matched d'Artagnan's  _'what the fuck'_  look and tried to corral the overwhelming burst of desire that surged whenever Aramis was practically flush against him.

It had the strangest effect on Porthos, whose eyes were suddenly glued to them, and something like a smile played about lips that had just been heavily downturned.

Whatever Aramis was doing, was working.

"I want to go home," Aramis breathed, distractingly close to his ear, and Athos nodded once, looking up to catch eyes with Porthos and jerk his head at the door.

It was a matter of minutes for Porthos to discard a fresh drink, pluck d'Artagnan's from his complaining grip, and forge a path to the taxi rank outside.

Never let it be said that they didn't do everything Aramis wanted.

Which wasn't a helpful thought when Aramis curled up on the back seat between him and Porthos, curls tickling his collarbone as Porthos' arm rested just behind their heads.

They fell into The Garrison and Athos swore when he caught sight of the time, knowing Treville wouldn't allow drinking as an excuse to not send the newspaper's draft that night - even if he himself had still been trying to drink Richelieu under the table the last that Athos had seen.

Athos unlocked his door, booted up his laptop, and ignored the hubbub behind him of d'Artagnan trying to untangle his jacket from Porthos' hand when the boy commented on the mark still blaring on Aramis' neck.

"Leave him alone, Porthos," Athos warned distractedly. "Go to bed."

Porthos paused, Aramis whined, but then they were gone, and d'Artagnan sank into the chair next to him, as he usually did on a Sunday night.

Athos hands whirred over the keyboard, stopping only to yawn and say, "We'll need water if we're to be up tomorrow." He held out a hand when d'Artagnan swayed to his feet. "I'll get it, stay put."

Athos caught a gleam of d'Artagnan's eyes before they darted away, and then the boy nodded.

Athos was only out of the room for about three minutes, passing both Aramis and Porthos' doors, but he couldn't even summon a scowl when he saw d'Artagnan hovering guiltily over his computer. "What have you done, _vaurien_?"

D'Artagnan jerked at his voice, expression pitiful. "I think I sent the draft."

Athos felt his irritation as if it were behind a wall, one that wouldn't let him be angry at the boy he already considered family. Instead, Athos took a relieved breath and waved him out. "That's fine, it was done."

D'Artagnan paused at the door, taking the second glass of water with a quiet, "Goodnight, Athos."

Athos felt a tired smile twitch his cheeks. "Goodnight, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan peeked over his shoulder as Athos watched him go, some sort of obligation to ensure the boy returned to his room safely, and then Athos closed his door against the world with a sigh.

Alone for the first time in a month, Athos regarded his bed as if it were an empty nest, but he was drunk enough that he could ignore the loneliness still swirling around his heart and simply fall into bed, still fully dressed.

His laptop's light blinked at him from across the room, and Athos couldn't help but feel he had missed something important.

If only he knew what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nota Bene:** Toulouse is lovely, it was a random pick from the map.
> 
> "Why do you take so long to update, ComeHither?" I hear you cry (or perhaps that's just the wind against my window), but the reason is this: I''ve a habit of crises of confidence, I feel like my writing is too formal/long, so I put off posting. I have about 50k's worth of fic in my Musketeers folder that's begging to be posted, but anxiety is a cruel mistress. Any tips would be wonderful, here or on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/)!


	10. Bibamus, Moriendum Est

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us drink, for we must die.
> 
> Clarity seems so very close until it's smudged by a wine-stained finger.

> How do you speak to an angel?  
>  I'm completely in the dark.  
>  When you know that you've just met an angel,  
>  Is there a proper remark?
> 
> We were alone for a moment.  
>  Why was I lost in a cloud?  
>  Do you speak to an angel in a whisper,  
>  Or do you just say I love you out loud?
> 
> \- Dean Martin, _'How do you Speak to an Angel?'_

Pounding on his door finally managed to drag Athos from his dreams and into chaos. At some point in the night he must have flung his phone away, because it was blaring urgently at him from across the room, and outside, he heard Porthos' ringing, too.

" _Mon Dieu, quoi, quoi?"_ Athos stumbled backwards when he opened the door and Porthos shoved Aramis' iPad in his face. " _Quoi _—_  _what?"

"There's a fuckin' article in the paper about Bonacieux bein' gay."

Athos blinked tiredly, a strained laugh escaping his lips as he scanned the article. It was badly written, as if it had been rushed; but regardless, who published gossip in a newspaper?

Athos' gaze flicked to the top of the page and then his whole body convulsed, a sickening chill grabbing his backbone and slithering along every vertebra.

"This is my paper," he whispered, breath coming shallowly as he snatched the tablet from Porthos' hands. Anxiety charged through his system, a thousand frothing horses that stamped fear along his tongue and down his throat. "It's on the first page, how did it get onto the first page? I presume this is some sick joke?"

Porthos stared miserably at him, shaking his head as their phones continued to ring. "Aramis was up for 'is poetry translation when the paper published. Y'know he checks over 'is layout every time, thought 'e was freakin' out 'bout some mis-spacin'."

Horror made Athos' voice hollow. "This has gone out, to everyone?"

Porthos nodded. "Reckon we 'ave about five minutes before Treville shows up an' tears us a new arsehole. What do we do, do we run for it? I reckon we could go an' live in Scotland for a bit." Porthos attempted a laugh, the sound dying on his lips when Athos started to shake. "Hey, Athos, it's gonna be fine."

"Treville is going to murder me," he breathed, gaze so intent on his newspaper's logo that it was burning onto his retinas. "He's going to cut me up into tiny pieces and mail me back to my parents, _putain de merde_."

Porthos' hands came up to his arms, trying to steady him. "S'not just on you, Athos, I guess Treville didn't bother checkin' your draft over, someone must've got to it. You know the college's email protection ain't great."

Athos stilled as if he had been struck. His gaze lifted, met Porthos' for a full two seconds, and then it lifted higher, until it tried to pierce the ceiling above.

"D'Artagnan."

"He doesn't know, didn't bother wakin' him."

Athos didn't move, still between Porthos' arms, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "It's his article."

There was a moment's silence, and then a very flat, "What."

"He was by my computer last night, he sent my final draft to Treville, he must have edited it."

"I'll kill 'im."

Athos closed his eyes and prayed that he would wake up from this nightmare, surely he was still sleeping, surely this was just some alcohol-infused dream and he would wake up in a cold sweat.

Aramis' light steps sounded down the hallway, his laugh sounding pained. "Well, Constance knows." Athos opened his eyes to see a bright pink handprint across Aramis' cheek, guilt flaring painfully in that same place.

Porthos let one of Athos' arms go so that he could bring Aramis closer. They stood as three, Porthos' fingers brushing the sore spot as Athos asked in doomed tones, "Is she okay?"

"She said that the next time I thought about outing someone, I would have a bit more self-awareness," Aramis said the last dryly, wincing when his smile made his cheek hurt.

Athos tried not to flinch at that seemingly prophetic statement, and refused to imagine what would have happened if it had been  _his_ outing in his paper, a picture of Aramis plastered against his side and lips almost brushing his neck.

"She blamed you?" Porthos asked in surprise, and Aramis spread his hands.

"I was closest, and she'll forgive me, I think."

"You don't need to take the fall for this." Athos found some stability in defending Aramis, in the three of them together, against the world. "It was d'Artagnan."

Aramis frowned, his confusion turning tender, his expression turning to the one Athos both hated and loved to see. It was the one that would save oil-slicked penguins and all the world's orphans, the one that Athos would cut off his own fingers to see appeased. "Oh, he really loves her."

Porthos scowled, not quite in the same romantic mind-set as Aramis clearly was. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Aramis' smile was sad. "He's young, you saw how Bonacieux was with Constance, d'Artagnan thought he was helping, he didn't mean any harm."

"Yes, well," Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, decision made the moment Aramis' face had softened, "I'm no stranger to self-abuse."

Porthos turned on him, missing the adoring expression Aramis gave that firmed his decision – because Aramis had Athos wrapped around his little finger. "You gotta be kiddin' me, Athos, you were just havin' a panic attack 'cause Treville's gonna murder you!"

"He'll forgive me, I think." Athos raised a tired eyebrow at Aramis' delighted smile.

What he wouldn't do to see that smile, and what he would never say so that he never lost it.

 

* * *

 

Treville grabbed for his phone, jaw setting dangerously stiff when a furious, cultured voice trickled through the speaker. Athos closed his eyes and wondered why the hell Richelieu couldn't help himself from riling Treville.

It could have only been a handful of hours since they had last seen each other.

Athos had been stood there in the piercing dawn light for fifteen minutes, and Treville was nowhere near finished ripping him to shreds, his fury nowhere near abated as he hissed into the phone, "Do you think I don't know?"

"I should think you do know, it's practically page three in The Sun!" Treville's only answer was a snarl of pure rage. "Get a hold of your students, Jean, or I will."

Treville stiffened, driving his letter opener into the dark wood of his desk. "Keep to your own turf,  _Richie_ , I'm taking care of it."

Richelieu's voice turned sibilant, "Oh, like you took care of the punch bowl at the board meet last month?"

Treville dragged the blade downwards, his words so much rumbling as Athos pretended he was deaf, "It was  _your_ punch, and shittily made, too. Be grateful someone drank it!"

"There's more where that came from,  _monsieur."_

Athos jerked his gaze from the floor, stunned at the pure taunt lacing that startlingly silky bit of French. It had almost sounded similar to Aramis', except that Aramis meant it in jest, there was playful heat in his words, and there couldn't have been any in Richelieu's.

They hated each other.

Treville's eyelid twitched, and then Athos was summarily dismissed with red staining Treville's cheeks and one finger pointed at the doorway in some macabre imitation of Lord Alan Sugar.

Athos hesitated at first, unsure whether he had once again missed something important, but then the little voice in his head caught up to him, and it was all he could do not to fling himself from the room.

 _Failed_ , the little voice said in its whip-like whispers, you've  _failed._

The panic started behind Athos' eyelids, crawled along his skin, until it coated him inside and out; the fear that he was to be just another disappointment in someone else's life.

The blame would not fall entirely to him; the pressure had lessened as it made its way through the lines. The University would take the brunt, relay Athos' story of an email hack because his password was shoddy, Treville would have to submit to a security hearing, and Athos would have Treville's disappointment staining his soul forever.

Treville had shouted, he had raged, but the worst part was the silence, the tired sigh and the quiet, "How could you let this happen, Athos?"

It played over in his head, in his father's voice, and Athos had to clutch at his chest in a desperate attempt to keep his heart from pounding through his ribs.

"Not now," he whispered, still metres from the safety of The Garrison, the cold clutching at his clothes just as the self-loathing clutched at his thoughts. "It wasn't my fault."

Athos had taken responsibility, as he had taken it so many times before, when Thomas had broken something, when Thomas had failed; Athos had always stood in the way, what was one more black mark for another brother?

It had been a good deed, but it was turning sour, no matter how much affection had warmed Aramis' eyes at Athos' sacrifice. It wasn't enough, he needed to  _do_ something, to pull Aramis and his affection closer, demand Aramis tell him  _why_ he had done it.

Because Athos wasn't sure anymore, not when Treville had looked at him and shaken his head, and it had felt as if everything he had worked towards had fallen flat on his face, like Athos always did.

His transgressions weighed like cannonballs on his feet, the water was choppy and the clouds were dark, and there was no one to relieve the weight, not even someone to hold his hand and keep his head above the water.

Athos collapsed with his back to the brick wall and choked in breaths as if he was drowning, drowning amidst bad habits and terrible choices.

_How could you let this happen, Athos?_

He jerked backwards, the back of his head smacking against the brick, sharp, blinding pain cascading through his skull. It helped; the teeth-clenchingly bright sound that rang throughout his head with each smack, until he was left holding back sobs with one hand, and dragging his hand through his hair with the other to check for blood.

No marks, safe.

As he had told Aramis, he was no stranger to self-abuse.

With no one to hold his hand, Athos pulled himself out of the water, pulling with every exhausted muscle and every spark of pain in his skull, and when he saw that the horizon was empty, he hardened his heart that little bit more.

When Athos stood, he left the failure behind, left it curled up on the frigid ground with its wordless cries, and all he took with him was the disappointment.

Not Treville's for him, but his for d'Artagnan.

The blame had to trickle down.

_How could you let this happen, Athos?_

As if summoned, d'Artagnan was waiting for Athos when he returned to his room, the boy nervously clasping his hands together and apart, together and apart.

They must have heard him passing, because Porthos' door clicked open and he and Aramis both peered out, faces' dark with worry.

Athos hovered on his threshold for a moment, refusing to give Aramis and Porthos his attention when he had only just put himself back together, badly, and their affection might work at the cracks. When Aramis made to step forward, Athos shut his door, drove his fingers through his hair, and snapped, "Damn it, d'Artagnan. I can't be _lieve_  you posted that article."

D'Artagnan jumped up in surprise, eyes widening at the thread of anger he had never heard before. It was the one Athos had inherited from his father, the one that grabbed you by the neck and told you that you'd  _failed._

Athos knew it very well.

"I— I still don't understand, what did I do wrong?"

All Athos could do was swear, because he couldn't physically shake the boy. " _Sacre bleu_." D'Artagnan blinked in amazement. "This isn't just humiliating to Bonacieux, it's humiliating for us all."

"I don't see how—"

"—No, you don't see," Athos interrupted, and the anger was back in full force, controlling his tongue with barbed wire that bit. "You didn't  _think._  How do you think Constance is going to feel? Everyone now knows that she was dating someone in the closet, she was his beard, do you  _know_  how shitty that is?"

Athos' fury riled d'Artagnan, and the boy took a brave step towards him. "Bonacieux was a dick for doing it!"

"Yes, of course he was," Athos said hoarsely, and felt something painful in his chest at the admission. "But every single person Constance sees will know that her relationship was meaningless, every minute she spent with him was a lie."

Athos had known Constance for two years and in that amount of time, he had found out that she was almost as private as he was – and that was saying something.

It turned out that he and Bonacieux had more in common than he had realised, and wasn't that a despairing thought.

_Every minute was a lie._

"But wouldn't she rather know?" D'Artagnan looked like the boy that Athos remembered from the first day of term, lost and bewildered.

"I'm sure she would have rather found out quietly, without anyone knowing," Athos sighed, and wanted to add,  _especially you._

For all Constance had maintained that she and Bonacieux were happy together, Athos wouldn't have been known as the perceptive one if he had missed the way Constance lit up at d'Artagnan's shy smiles.

The boy was endearing, but he was also fierce and protective, and as much as Constance hadn't wanted to admit it, she had liked him.

She had before this, anyway.

D'Artagnan thought about that for a moment, nibbling his lip anxiously. "So you're angry because I humiliated her?"

Athos exhaled, his anger draining into something sad at the clear signs of d'Artagnan's youth. "Yes, I'm angry because of that, she's my friend and I.. I wouldn't wish that realisation upon anyone." Athos shook his head when d'Artagnan settled. "That's not the only reason."

"What—"

"—You made me look like a fool, d'Artagnan. I vouched for you at the beginning of this year and everything you do reflects on me. Do you think Treville will ever trust me again, after this?"

"Of course he will, you know you're his favourite."

Athos snapped, "This isn't high school, d'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan flinched, and only a very tiny part of Athos was screaming at him to stop. But once again, there was no one here to stop him, to help him, and so Athos had to do what he knew best, what was ingrained in his very cells.

Nonchalance should have been just that, but on a la Fère, it was a weapon.

D'Artagnan looked down, his head heavy with shame, and his voice was a whisper, "Are you going to tell Constance it was me?"

Athos tilted his head ever so slightly. "I cannot take the fall for everything, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan's bright eyes closed in defeat, and Athos knew he should stop, knew he shouldn't torment the boy so – not when d'Artagnan would come out of this entirely in the clear with everyone.

Athos never had been able to simply step aside, even at the worst moments.

D'Artagnan's nod was forlorn, his voice that of a boy who thought that his love was forever beyond him. "Okay, she deserves to know, she deserves better."

The empathy twined like a vice around Athos' throat.

But d'Artagnan straightened, taking some sort of strength from knowing that the truth would come out, that all the cards would be on the table, that he would be  _okay._

Athos' breath finally came, and it was angry, desperate, jealous, for  _he_ would not be okay if everything came to light, he would be cast aside by the ones he loved most.

D'Artagnan's bravery obscured him, and Athos felt so very small in the boy's shadow.

The panic returned, Athos could feel the cracks widen under d'Artagnan's tentative smile, and the words seemed to slip out like a shark looking for blood, and Athos knew just where to find it. "Trust is hard earned and easily lost, d'Artagnan, and today, you have lost mine."

D'Artagnan's smile dropped, his face conveying the true horror that he had not felt about Constance. "Athos, please don't say that."

Athos looked into eyes that tugged at the stone of his heart, but all that did was make him miserable, make him feel like a failure for placing his trust in someone that had broken it. "You've disappointed me, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan's lips parted in a silent gasp and then he ran from the room, his steps echoing down the hallway until they stopped suddenly and the soothing sound of murmuring could be heard amidst harsh breaths.

Athos' melancholy turned to frustration when he heard a door close and a forceful stride.

Aramis appeared in his doorway, eyes ablaze with anger. "Why did you have to be so cruel to him?"

Athos looked at Aramis for a moment, captured by the way the hallway light caught his chocolate curls and made him seem like an avenging angel.

Not quite the time for poetry, or the hitch in Athos' heartbeat.

_Every minute was a lie._

"He needs to know what he did wrong," Athos said with forced detachment as he turned for his wine, needing to taste it on his tongue to overpower the bitterness of disappointment.

The bottle was by Aramis, and he looked furious enough to not let him past.

Wine and angry Aramis; not a perfect evening, but certainly an arresting one.

Aramis stepped aside almost by instinct, glaring at Athos as he passed. "And kicking him when he's down is going to help?"

Athos snorted, so covered in mental bruises from just that that it was a surprise he wasn't physically mottled. "It will help him learn, yes."

" _Mon Dieu_ , Athos," Aramis snarled, and shot his hand out to grab for the bottle before Athos could reach for it. If Athos hadn't been startled by the French and worn out from d'Artagnan, he would have snatched it back.

"Do not try me, Aramis," he sighed wearily and held his hand out. "I don't have the time."

Aramis hid the wine behind his back and glowered. "Don't you? Tell me what you're doing that's so important, I'd love to know."

 _Trying not to watch the way the shadows dance over your face,_ Athos' mind whispered, filtering through the ever-widening cracks in his façade. "I'm attempting to fix this mess that d'Artagnan has put me in," he said through gritted teeth.

"And you're doing that with wine and letting him think you hate him?"

Athos raised an eyebrow and opened his cupboard for another bottle of wine, ignoring Aramis' irritated hiss. "He knows I don't hate him, I'm just not very happy with him."

As Athos turned to find a glass, Aramis stood in his way and scowled at him. "He doesn't know you like we do; he doesn't know you're just—"

"—Disappointed?"

"A moody fucking idiot!" Aramis shouted, and Athos blinked in surprise, struck silent by that fury. Had Aramis ever spoken to him like that, before?

Not even when Aramis had caught him tossing back the secret bottle of whiskey on the anniversary of Thomas' death. Aramis had simply held him until Porthos arrived, and then they had alternated between clearing his room of temptation and sitting with him.

They hadn't realised that they were the greatest temptations, and alcohol was only a stopgap.

Aramis reached for the bottle in Athos' hand but he held it back, forcing Aramis to step closer to him to try and reach it. Aramis' chest bumped against his and Athos' breathing stuttered, his voice lowering to husky as he asked, "What did you call me?"

Aramis' gaze jumped from the wine to him, his pupils expanding to eclipse the light brown irises. Athos watched Aramis' eyelashes, watched them flutter under the furrowed brow that he so desperately wanted to smooth.

Athos shuddered when Aramis' fingers clasped his bicep, trying to draw his arm down to reach the wine, but Athos lifted it higher and effectively pulled Aramis closer.

It was entirely subconscious.

Athos' pulse started to race, a different, hotter version than the anger-fuelled beat that had finally passed. Aramis couldn't have been any further than a few inches away, his shallow breaths like soft caresses on Athos' lips.

"I will not be a failure, Aramis, do you understand?" Athos' voice was hoarse, desperate to retain the fury – that was easier to deal with than the lust that ran untrammelled in his veins. "I will not let Treville think I've failed."

Aramis softened, his anger dying to be replaced with something that looked terrifyingly like tender concern. "How have you failed, Athos?"

That concern  _hurt._ Athos didn't want the concern, didn't want the gentling grip on his arm that threatened to split him wide open. The therapists had been  _concerned_ , but then, they hadn't actually cared.

They hadn't trailed their fingers along his arm and to his jaw, leaving scorch marks in their wake. Athos had not been able to count their eyelashes, or feel their heartbeats thumping in fevered time with his.

He hadn't looked into their eyes and seen a piece of his soul there, the one that he had given in exchange for theirs.

Aramis tilted his head ever-so-slightly upwards and inhaled reverently when Athos almost closed the gap between them, called by something that he had wanted for so very long, drawn by the countless dreams of moments just like this one.

Of being the one that Aramis went to for  _more_ than just friendship, but it was simply that, a pipe dream.

It had to be.

"You are not a failure,  _mon cher._ " Aramis' words whispered over Athos' skin, dancing through the scant inch between their mouths. "You will never be a failure."

Athos shivered, his hand reaching up of its own accord and brushing against Aramis' neck, his fingers finding their place along the thumping column of Aramis' jugular, as if they belonged there.

Aramis swayed forward, his eyes lidded, and Athos swallowed, his tongue wetting his own lips when all he wanted was to taste Aramis'. To taste of the fruit so forbidden that Athos was fighting the betrayal that threatened to have him tearing from the room and breaking something.

It was wrong, so very wrong, but it felt  _so right_.

Heavy footsteps that he knew so well made Athos jerk away, his hand snatched from Aramis' throat as if it had burned him.

He  _felt_ burned, as if by shame. Shame that fired through him when he saw Aramis breathing heavily and frowning at him, obviously confused by his strange reactions, because Athos had seriously considered  _kissing_ one of his best friends.

Porthos appeared in the doorway, that same light bathing him that had caught Aramis.

An angel for an angel. How appropriate.

"D'Artagnan's in pie-…-ces. Everythin' alright?"

Athos turned aggrieved eyes on Porthos and he saw that tender concern again, further proof that Athos was a fucking idiot and didn't deserve his friends.

And yet, as he muttered, "I'm going to check on d'Artagnan," and pushed past Porthos, guilt almost crippled him when he caught a broad shoulder with his and heat seared his stomach.

Fuck, what was wrong with him?

Athos felt as if he had betrayed them both, but he still hesitated at the end of the hall, ears straining to hear what Aramis would tell Porthos, if Aramis had seen the truth in his eyes, if Porthos had felt him shiver as he passed.

They would never forgive him.

"You have shocking timing,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis sighed, and Athos wasn't sure why Porthos chuckled in sheepish apology.

They didn't know, they hadn't guessed, there were no marks. He was safe, for a little longer.

 

* * *

 

"I'm not going to tell Constance, d'Artagnan," Athos said softly into the darkness, trying to find the boy amidst Porthos' heavily curtained room. Athos sighed when no response came, at once steeling himself and softening, choosing to say what no one had said to him. "I'm not disappointed in you."

There was a shuffling, and then d'Artagnan's slim form shoved into Athos' front, pushing him back a step until he could brace against the arms around his chest, the ones crushing his aching ribs.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan mumbled against his ear, and Athos resigned himself to the hug, to the depth of affection he had for the boy, to the knowledge that he was the one that had done wrong.

"I know." Athos awkwardly lifted an arm from his loose embrace of the boy's shoulders and cupped the back of his head, dark hair shifting against his fingers when d'Artagnan heaved in a relieved breath. "So am I."

There was a mock-gasp from down the hallway, and when Athos looked past d'Artagnan, he saw that they had an audience, Aramis with his head tipped against a smiling Porthos' shoulder.

"Do you mind?" Athos asked archly, but he smiled, too, when d'Artagnan broke away with a small, embarrassed laugh.

D'Artagnan gave Aramis a grateful smile as the pair approached, evidently knowing who he had to thank for Athos' change in behaviour.

 _Far more than they realised_ , Athos thought as the energy from Aramis' proximity still crackled under his skin, where it would linger in delicious torment until Athos could sneak away and do something about it.

His palm itched.

"C'mon, let's go get some breakfast." Porthos hooked an arm around Athos' shoulder, bringing him against the opposite side of Aramis, whose proud smile made Athos hesitate.

"No, I can't." Bestowed with three dubious stares as he slipped away, Athos sighed, "I need to see Constance."

D'Artagnan stiffened, his face pinching with fear, but Aramis was there before Athos could explain. "Just to check that she's okay,  _il mio ragazzo_."

The way d'Artagnan looked up in surprise – and the way Aramis' voice was painfully soft – Athos knew it was a term of endearment, and if the way d'Artagnan sagged against Aramis' side was any indication, it was what his father had called him.

"I meant what I said, d'Artagnan." A smirk hinted at Athos' lips when d'Artagnan gave him a pitifully hopeful look. "I will not push you to do or say anything until you are ready, but, please, don't give me another heart attack."

D'Artagnan ducked his head when Porthos chuckled, "Never seen Athos so terrified."

"Yes, thank you," he said dryly, dodging to avoid Porthos' fingers chucking his chin, "I think d'Artagnan's given me my first grey hair – if Aramis doesn't have that dubious honour."

Aramis squawked and splayed his hand over his heart. "I endeavour to only make your life easier,  _mon cher._ "

"Feel free to start doing so," Athos scoffed before pausing suddenly at a realisation. "You have been markedly well-behaved, recently."

Athos had expected a lewd comment from Porthos, but he simply looked at Aramis, who said hesitantly, "You've not been well."

Athos' mouth opened and closed, surprise palpable in the shortness of his reply. "Oh."

Had he kept Aramis from his consorts because he had been worrying about him? If Athos had felt guilty before, now he was drowning in it, and it was tinged with hysteria.

"Athos," Porthos said gently, his smile lopsided. "S'fine, we 'aven't 'ad time to fence, even Aramis can't sneak in a quickie between classes."

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "You underestimate me,  _mon cher_."

Athos' smile was automatic at Aramis' pretty scoff, and he relaxed when Aramis gave him a reassuring smile – even if it did seem coated with tentativeness.

They both looked at Athos carefully and he realised that they must be waiting for something; with a lurch to his stomach, he knew what it must be. "Well, I'm fine now," he forced out, hating the taste of bile in his mouth, "you can return to your devious ways."

Aramis' smile seemed just as forced for some reason. "Excellent."

Athos frowned, not understanding the awkward air between them, not able to read Porthos' quick glance Aramis' way, but then d'Artagnan piped up worriedly, "Constance isn't answering her phone."

Porthos waggled his eyebrows. "Since when've you 'ad Constance's number?"

D'Artagnan flushed, mumbling some terrible response, and Athos empathised with the poor boy. "It's fine, I'll go and see her."

"Call me— us," d'Artagnan said worriedly, "let us know that she's okay."

Athos promised that he would, and ignored the first few texts that he received from a nervous d'Artagnan asking the same question over and over again, and focused on winding his way through the fashion and textile students.

Constance didn't answer when he knocked, and after hovering around her room for a while, one of her hallmates told him that she had raced out of the building ten minutes earlier.

Before the concern could properly set in, his phone rang, but instead of d'Artagnan's self-set  _Who Let the Dogs Out,_ it was Ninon's  _Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_  – also self-set, and he had no idea from when.

"Why is Constance on my doorstep crying her eyes out and drinking my wine?"

Athos sighed in relief. " _Dieu merci_ , she's with you, we've been worried."

Ninon made a humming noise and then asked quietly, "What's going on, Athos? I saw the paper."

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can I come over? I need to see her."

"Since when have you needed to ask, _c_ _arissimus?_ " Ninon said distractedly, tone fond as she shaped the endearment. "I'll see you in ten."

Athos smiled as he walked. "Make it twenty, I have to stop somewhere, first."

Athos finally returned one of d'Artagnan's many calls, hearing the click when he was put onto loudspeaker. "She's fine." Their relieved sighs echoed down the phone, but they cut off when he added, "She's at Ninon's, I'm heading there, now."

"For how long?" Aramis asked, and Athos made a non-committal sound as he crossed the road.

"An hour, maybe less? I'll call you afterwards, I'm at the florists."

"The flor—?!" Porthos' question was cut off as Athos hung up, focusing all of his attention on the bright array of flowers in front of him.

White tulips for fresh starts, purple hyacinths for apologies, and a sprig of cherry blossom.

Athos thought that he was managing quite well, considering that he had been dragged out of bed and been on an emotional rollercoaster since then – at one point almost cutting his own heart out by even daring to think that Aramis might respond well to a kiss.

For being so terrible as to think that Aramis might have even a  _shred_ of what Athos so foolishly felt for him and Porthos – a  _tendre_ that was rather more tenderising than simply tender.

Athos called himself a thousand names, but they all stuttered into silence as the black cab pulled up into Ninon's road, and Athos felt himself regressing to his childhood.

He refused to look at the distant turn off, the one marked by black railings and perfectly sculpted topiaries, the one heralded by his own swiftly rising anxiety.

He did  _not_ run up the stairs to Ninon's house and knock harder than he should. "You've grown since you were last at my door," she teased, and he smothered his smile, badly, to frown at her.

"You're hardly befitting of my gift." Athos plucked the cherry blossom from the artfully arranged bouquet to hand to Ninon.

Ninon's smile was bright and easy, turning wistful as she played with the stem. "I still have the first bonsai you bought me."

"I should think so, it was the only thing both pretty and easy that wasn't a flowering cactus," Athos drawled, and smirked when Ninon bopped him on the nose with the cherry blossom.

Constance appeared in the hallway, shamefaced with a glass in her hand already nearly empty, barely meeting his gaze before looking away again and clenching her jaw. "Athos, I'm sorry for slapping Aramis, but—"

"—Don't be." Constance's eyes widened when Athos flourished the bouquet. "Aramis is used to it, and you were right, I messed up."

Constance stared in disbelief. "They got in through you?"

"They must have guessed my password." Athos shrugged, deliberately ignoring Ninon's flicker of a frown. "I'm sorry, Constance."

"Oh, Athos." Constance bit her lip, smile wobbly as she reached for the flowers. "I feel like such a fool."

"Don't, even the best of us make mistakes."

Constance's smile grew. "Even you?"

Athos bit his tongue and nodded. "Even me."

Constance's giggle was a bit watery, but it was stronger than it had been, and she sniffed happily at a tulip. "These are beautiful, Athos, thank you, but… Ninon's offered to let me stay for a few days. Just until everything has died down."

Athos couldn't help his fond smile at his oldest friend. "A paragon,  _ma cherie_."

Ninon beamed at him, not seeing the way Constance frowned at them both, at the cherry blossom clasped in Ninon's hands. "There's a vase in the kitchen if you want those to keep, Constance." Ninon waited until Constance had disappeared and then rounded on him.

"You are a liar, _C_ _omte._ " Ninon crossed her arms when Athos scowled at her for the nickname. "You've been using a hybrid of French and Latin for passwords since we were young. There is no way someone  _guessed._ "

She always did know him too well, and her raised eyebrow told him that she knew it.

"If I said it was the misplaced act of a puppy lost in the throes of love, would you understand?"

Ninon's sudden smile was as fond and reluctant as his was. "D'Artagnan."

"I knew you were clever as well as beautiful," Athos teased, and flicked his gaze over her shoulder when Constance reappeared.

Constance glanced between them when she noticed his smile, a question flickering over her face, but when he inclined his head, she nibbled her lip and asked, "Where's Aramis and Porthos?"

"They're at The Garrison, but they're not expecting me for another hour or so." Athos checked his watch, and when he looked up, he could have sworn that the two girls had shared a glance. "Is everything—?"

His phone buzzed, the dogs' barking from d'Artagnan's ringtone, and Athos frowned at his screen.

[Hurry back. I can't find them, something weird is happening.]

Athos sighed heavily. Of course, because his day couldn't get any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've a plethora of quotes and phrases in a smorgasbord of languages, but if you have any great ones, let me know in a comment or pop by my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


	11. De Fumo In Flammam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the smoke, into the flame.
> 
> Hark, what's this, my obsession with chapter titles and polyglottism has become more apparent? Tis true, go check 'em out! Not to mention the gentle reworking that the wonderful [Scrabble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scrabble/works) has done, who deserves many thanks, cuddles, and hot chocolates!
> 
> Also, a **trigger warning** , minor homophobia and self-abuse, as well as some let's-all-scream-at-Athos-because-seriously.

> Hey, jealous lover,  
>  How wrong can you be?  
>  I'm yours, ever faithful,  
>  Just be faithful to me.  
>  I am just as steady as that,  
>  Clock on the shelf.  
>  Maybe you're accusin' me of,  
>  What you're doin' yourself.
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra,  _'Jealous Lover'_

_I can't find them_ .

D'Artagnan's text sat uncomfortably in Athos' palm as he sat in yet another cab. Athos had only been gone a maximum of thirty minutes, what sort of trouble could the pair of them have gotten into in that amount of time? Athos grimaced as he amended that thought, Aramis could get into trouble in thirty seconds, and Porthos in three.

Together? Well.

Still, Athos' smile was stupidly affectionate because he knew – just as well as they did – that he would bail them out of anything. Their not answering d'Artagnan was odd, though – annoying, in fact. He was pulling up onto campus by the time he had idly mused over the idea of earpieces.

What Athos arrived onto was a scene that had him breaking from his usual stride into an alarmed dash. Two unknown figures stood at the front of The Garrison, one a little further back, and one standing aggravatingly close to d'Artagnan, whose back was almost pressed to the door.

"I can't let you in," d'Artagnan insisted, his hand twisting behind his back in his nervous fencer's tic, the one Athos had been successfully breaking him of until now.

"Yeah, you bloody well can. Step aside, pencil the code in like a good little onion, an' let us in," the stranger ordered, deceptively friendly when his smile was that of a rabid dog's. The one at his back, a blonde haired girl, rolled her eyes, but made no move to stop the entirely threatening display.

D'Artagnan shook his head, and on one of those determined shakes, he spotted Athos. " _Meno Male_ ," d'Artagnan sighed in relief, standing a little straighter now that he had back up. "He says he knows Porthos, but he's not answering his phone,  _again_."

Although Athos wanted to frown at Porthos' disappearance –  _again_ – there were more pressing issues at hand. Athos stepped protectively into the slim gap between d'Artagnan and the male stranger, forcing him back a step. "Can I help you?"

"Doubt it, name's Charon, if you're a mate of Porthos', you'll know me." This Charon had his thumbs hooked into his pockets, expression entirely disinterested in the unwelcome waves d'Artagnan was giving off.

The way Charon was dressed, he could almost have been Porthos' brother, menacing air just covering the cocky grin that hinted at his mouth.

"I've never heard of you in my life," Athos stated mildly, and hardened to say, "So I recommend you leave until you're invited back,  _if_ you're invited back.

"Listen," Charon tried to lean in, but Athos didn't budge. "I don't really give a shit if you call the cops on me, won't be the first time, I just wanna see Porthos."

"And yet it seems he doesn't want to see you, unfortunate," Athos shrugged. "Now leave."

"Charon, I said 'e wouldn't," the other said, leaning into one hip with a sigh, "let's just go."

"No way." Charon's laugh was dark. "I wanna see if this is the sort of shit Porthos 'as to deal with every day."

"Porthos likes it here," d'Artagnan muttered rebelliously, and Athos smirked over his shoulder – even though d'Artagnan was not who Athos wanted there, right now.

When did he ever?

"What'd you say, pipsqueak?" Charon's voice had lowered to a dangerous level, and Athos narrowed his eyes, resting a hand on d'Artagnan's forearm when the boy gave a fair imitation of one of Porthos' growls.

"Insult us again and we'll see where that gets you, hm?"

"This ain't none of your business, sunshine, now fuck off." Charon jerked his head in a move alarmingly reminiscent of Porthos'.

It seemed everyone was picking up on Porthos' tricks, lately, so Athos sighed and brought his phone out, finally deciding to call him – if only because he was tired of dealing with everyone else's problems, today.

It answered on the first ring, Porthos' voice tight with something Athos couldn't identify. "Athos, you alright?"

Charon's smile was a slash of teeth at the sound of Porthos' voice, and he looked over his shoulder in smug victory.

"I'm outside." Athos hung up on the sound of Porthos' scrabbling, distractedly wondering if that faint noise in the background had been one of protest. "He's coming."

Charon nodded, but his expression had turned curious as he glanced at Athos' phone. "Who're you to 'ave Porthos on speed dial?"

"His friend," Athos replied neutrally, and tried not to think about the glorious sight of Porthos in the doorway earlier, light filtering around his head, concerned gaze fixed on Athos' heavy breathing. "Just friends."

It was said almost as an afterthought, and Charon's eyes narrowed slightly.

There was a click, and then d'Artagnan disappeared from Athos' back, falling with a squeak that was only just caught by Porthos' surprised grunt. "Pup, what the fu— Charon?" Athos turned to see Porthos' wide-eyed gaze lean to the side. "Flea?"

"Alright, mate?" Charon asked with a wide grin, but it still seemed a bit rabid to Athos – and d'Artagnan if the way the boy stuck close to Porthos' side was any indication. "How's tricks?"

"Good," Porthos replied numbly, one palm still protectively over d'Artagnan's shoulder. "How'd you know I was 'ere?"

"Just checked where you were gettin' your post sent, dunno why you never told us 'bout this place?" Charon phrased it as a question, expecting an answer, and looked over his shoulder. "Flea, 'ere, thought you'd been ignorin' us."

"I never said that." Flea answered Charon, but her attention was fixed on Porthos, who was staring at her just as intently. "Jus' thought you'd be too busy for us now."

"Too  _important,_ " Charon mocked, looking around at the campus with a derisive sneer. "Waste of time if you ask me, mate."

"Yeah, well, as I remember,  _mate,_  I didn't."

There was a discernible jump in tension, one where Athos raised his eyebrows at the falsely friendly tone of Porthos' voice – it wasn't often that Athos had heard the passivity of Porthos' aggression.

It was a sign that things were not all well, and seeing as they had already shown up in the gossip mill once today, it seemed prudent to keep everything else under wraps.

"Perhaps this would be better off done inside, where you aren't giving the campus a show?" Athos offered, and Charon jumped at the chance.

"Yeah, show us your digs, Porthos, you 'ave one of those flat hats an' everythin'?"

Porthos aimed a severely aggravated look at Athos, one that he wasn't sure he had been on the receiving end of, before. "Nah, not until I graduate, but sure," Porthos' voice went deliberately into sarcastic, " _come on in_."

Porthos stabbed the code in with more vigour than usual, and Charon and Flea forced their way past, the former giving a frowning d'Artagnan a toothy smile.

"Hm," Athos murmured to the boy almost attached to his arm, "something's not right."

"Ya think?" d'Artagnan whispered back, and Athos raised an eyebrow in a warning to watch himself. D'Artagnan snickered, the tension finally lifting from his face before falling again. "Is Constance okay?"

Athos smiled despite himself. "Yes, she's fine, just a bit shaken – she's going to stay with Ninon for a few days."

D'Artagnan nodded, glancing up fearfully. "Does she hate me?"

"No." Athos held the boy's weight when he sagged against him. "I would wait a while before contacting her though, just in case."

"Thanks, Athos." D'Artagnan gave him a quick squeeze before sidling to Porthos' side as they reached their hallway. Athos watched him go with a ruefully amused shake of his head, wondering when it was that he had started accepting hugs of gratitude.

Wondering when he had started taking strength from them.

D'Artagnan glared at Charon now, his jaw stubbornly set, but Charon didn't notice, he was too busy looking where Porthos looked, something calculating in his flinty gaze when they stopped.

Porthos' door was still unlocked, and as soon as Porthos made to bar the way, Charon barged past, shoving the door open with one hand and then stopping short in the doorway. "Thought this was your room, mate?"

"Yeah," Porthos ground out, dragging his nails over his scalp exasperatedly, "it is, why?"

Charon stepped aside to jerk his thumb in and sneer, "'Cause there's some dick in your bed, an' 'e looks bloody comfy."

Both Athos and Porthos flinched, but it was Athos who yanked Charon outside so that he could stand as guard at the foot of Porthos' bed, just about shielding an alarmed Aramis as he scrambled up onto his knees.

Shirt askew, jeans low on his hips, he looked…

Well, Athos quashed the first whisper of  _tempting_ and settled with  _damning._

Damning, for so many reasons, but the most pressing of which was the disgusted look in Charon's face, and Athos swore inwardly.

It seemed that Athos wasn't the only one keeping secrets from his friends – if, indeed, Charon could be called as such.

Except that, as Athos looked over Charon's shoulder for backup from Porthos, it was to see Flea cozied up against Porthos' side, her arm around his waist and his around hers.

A little more than friends, perhaps? Or was this all part of a ruse that Athos knew very well – he didn't think he played it as well as Porthos did, though, because the way Flea nuzzled his chin seemed incredibly genuine.

Painfully so.

It was d'Artagnan who slipped past next, standing at Athos' side and shrugging at Aramis when he whispered fiercely, "You could've told me we had visitors."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it after giving Athos a surprisingly concerned look. "You should've answered your phone when  _I_ called you, then."

Colour drained from Aramis' cheeks before his peaky brown eyes shot back to Athos' and searched his face. Aramis relaxed at whatever he saw there – which was general confusion at the situation – but tensed again when Charon started shouting.

"You tell me, mate, eh? Seems a bit fuckin' fishy to me."

Porthos' laugh was strained, "How often 'ave I slept in your bed, you tart."

"Tart?" Charon's laugh was far crueller. "The only tart 'ere, is you. Who keeps a bloody GQ in their bed?"

There was a homophobic slur on the tip of Porthos' tongue, Athos could see it, and it was only that or cuddling up to Flea that would disabuse Charon of Porthos' accused homosexuality.

But Porthos couldn't say it, his eyes closing before they settled on a distressed Aramis in some sort of an apology.

_Just admit it,_ Athos found himself thinking, and then winced at his own hypocrisy. Still, if it would get everyone through this without any broken bones, he would play a triple agent and pretend to be Porthos' bloody boyfriend if he had to.

He had done it for Aramis many times before, after all.

Of course, that was before he had fallen quite so far down this particular rabbit hole, and he wasn't sure if he could crawl his way back up, this time.

Especially not when Aramis' hand sneaked into his and Athos couldn't help but squeeze back, a warm sort of tingling racing along his skin even as he watched Flea cuddle impossibly closer into Porthos' arms.

Whether it was his refusal to voice the slur or something much more meaningful, Porthos brushed an absent-minded kiss over Flea's head, and Charon's lifted fist distracted everyone from Athos' flinch.

Athos had moved before he had thought about it, and Charon froze when Athos' fingers clamped about his wrist. "I would think twice about that, if I were you."

Charon yanked his arm away with a snarl but didn't raise it again, and Athos debated returning to the bed just so he could hold Aramis' hand again.

Even d'Artagnan had moved away, and Aramis looked incredibly alone, his worried gaze darting between Athos and Porthos.

Just when Athos was about to throw caution to the wind to erase that vulnerable look on Aramis' face, Porthos broke apart from Flea and stood where Athos had been, his jaw firming as he looked Charon in the eye.

"Alright, fine. Ain't it obvious, Charon, mate?" Porthos admitted with a crooked smile, one hand linking with Aramis'. "Guess all those times of callin' me it finally got through."

Athos choked on a breath, his gorge tightening just as Aramis' fingers tightened with Porthos'.

"You're kiddin', right?" Charon laughed, this time sounding forced and high, before he cleared his throat to bring it back down to lower levels. "Seriously, you're queer?"

Aramis winced, but Porthos simply shrugged. "Somethin' like that, yeah, s'that a problem?"

There were a few moments of silence where everyone stared intently at Charon, except for Flea, who rubbed the arm Porthos had been against, and sighed sadly.

Charon' stiffened when he noticed. "'Course it is, you twat, you're meant to be my best mate, not off fuckin' some guy – s'this why you came to Uni, to cop off with guys?"

"No—" Porthos' grin widened "—well, yeah, s'a benefit."

"Nah," Charon insisted, half-smile disbelieving, until he noticed Aramis' fingers playing with Porthos', and Charon's jaw clenched. "No, fuck this, fuck  _you,_ man. This s'why I told you comin' 'ere would be a shitty idea, look at you."

Porthos' smile was sad. "I'm happy, Charon."

"You were happy before, when you were with us!" Charon's fist thumped against his chest and stayed there, and for the slimmest of moments, Athos felt a surge of empathy. Would that be him, one day, when Aramis and Porthos had moved on?

"It's not the same, mate."

Charon scoffed harshly and his hand fell from his heart. "You're right, it's not."

Charon made a noise that seemed both angry and anguished, and then he threw himself from the room, his swift steps followed by the slam of the front door.

Athos couldn't quite sigh in relief as everyone else did, his attention caught by the way Aramis wilted against Porthos' side, his already half-open shirt lifting upwards until the tanned skin of his stomach brushed Porthos' bare arm.

Porthos' wrist turned as if to catch the sensation, his chin settling on Aramis' head as Aramis turned his face into Porthos' neck.

They looked…

_Good_ , he realised. They looked good together. As if they made sense, as if the little lie they had told Charon was actually something prophetic – if Athos believed in such things.

He was starting to believe in karma, though, because the most bizarre, piercing sort of jealousy screamed through his bloodstream, as if making up for all the times he had thought of them.

But it had been the  _three_ of them, in some illicit fantasy land where he had could eat his cake and have it, too. What if it wasn't just him in Charon's place, his two best friends not simply leaving him, but leaving  _together._

Athos trembled, the tiny muscles in his eyelids twitching, and he lifted his fingers to press against the blooming bruise at the back of his head from where he had smacked it earlier. Pain trickled through his system, but it wasn't enough, and he drove his nails into the sensitive flesh, choking when the skin split.

Only Aramis and Porthos looked up, Aramis' arm making an abortive movement somewhere, Porthos' frown dominating his face, but still their hands were linked. Athos stood alone, the third, the addition, as he always was.

Athos squeezed until he felt something warm trickle down his scalp, and it was only testament to how accustomed he was to it that the pain didn't show.

It blinded him, but that was better, far better than the raging monster that scrabbled under his skin, intent on tearing him apart for every idiotic moment he had ever thought that something was possible between them.

The monster quietened, staring at its stained hands, and sagged in shame. Guilt was the river that rushed down rage's empty path; such crushing guilt that Athos had to fist his hand in his jeans, scrubbing his nails against the denim.

A beer was pushed into his palm, and Athos looked up to see d'Artagnan giving him a concerned smile, Athos almost stumbling when d'Artagnan squeezed his shoulder for some reason.

Athos clung to the bottle, using skills long practiced to shove everything away – both mental and physical. Beer was good, until he could reach his wine, anyway. He had to hole up and rebuild his defences, the ones cruelly knocked so many times today.

He gulped half before he realised that only Aramis was watching him now, something strange in his expression before it turned reproachfully on Flea.

"Charon'll calm down, Porthos, s'just… a bit of a shock."

"Yeah, I know, I should've said somethin'." Porthos dropped Aramis' hand to rub at his neck, his usual nervous tell, and even beyond the rough scorch of hops in Athos' throat, something within him eased.

"Nah, you didn't, you didn't even 'ave to, today, if Charon hadn't been a dick. I'm glad you're happy, Porthos," she tilted her head to the side, smile cheeky, "even if it ain't with me."

"Ah, minx, knew I'd regret leavin' you behind," Porthos said softly, nudging her on the shoulder when she snickered.

"I could've told you that." Flea stepped away with a sigh, eyeing Aramis openly distrustful face. "Should've known you'd go for someone sweet." Porthos barked a surprised laugh, but it stuttered when she turned to Athos. "Thought you'd've liked someone with bite though, like 'im," she grinned, "like me."

"I'm not—"

"He's not—"

The three of them stopped after speaking at once, and Flea raised her hands. "Oh, sorry." She looked Athos up and down before winking at him. "Gimme a call then, seein' as Porthos 'as gone to the dark side."

It was Athos' turn to give a surprised laugh, and it turned bashful when Porthos growled in mock-affront, "Leave 'im alone, Flea."

Flea made a little phone motion with her hand and then gave them all a wave. "Keep in touch, big guy."

"Will do," Porthos called, and practically swayed with his exhaled breath, reaching for Aramis' hand to press it against his cheek for a moment. "Well, fuck."

"You have weird friends," d'Artagnan muttered, and left to Porthos' dazed chuckle.

"I owe you one, Pup!"

"Yeah, you do!"

Athos smiled as d'Artagnan disappeared downstairs, but it turned into a frown when he saw that Aramis was still glowering, his body language tense and unhappy, even with his hand once again linked with Porthos. Athos couldn't bring himself to care, exhaustion had overcome him, and all he wanted was to get into his bed and drink some ferociously expensive wine.

"What were you even doing in here?" he asked distractedly, not actually interested, they often shared spaces – and in far more seemingly compromising positions – but d'Artagnan had been frowning at the spray of Aramis' clothes around the room, the few knickknacks that Aramis left as his calling cards everywhere he went.

It took Aramis a beat to respond, and when he did, it was defensive, "I was- I was napping, or  _trying_ to, before you invited Mr. Homophobia in."

"Charon's not homophobic," Athos and Porthos said at the same time, and shared a tight smile.

"Yeah, well, I guess you would know," Aramis muttered mutinously, seeming excessively obstinate today, especially if Porthos' aggrieved glance was any indication.

Athos cocked an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Aramis shot him a look so full of sullenness that it prompted Porthos to push the door shut. "I don't know, Athos, where were  _you_  when this started, hm?" Aramis demanded, a judgemental look in his bright eyes. "I thought you were staying with Ninon,  _for an hour?_ "

Athos reeled in confusion, not understanding the definite emphasis to those last three words. "I went there to apologise to Constance, she's staying with Ninon." Athos broke off to frown, not liking the almost vicious twist to Aramis' pout, as if Athos was at fault for something. "What business is it of yours if I stay at Ninon's, anyway? She's my friend."

Distantly, he was aware of Porthos making a distressed noise, but Athos was too focused on the almighty scowl on Aramis' face.

"Yes, we know that very well," Aramis hissed, clambering forward on Porthos' bed, knees still wrapped in blankets which, now that Athos thought about it, were supposed to be on Aramis' bed. "You're her  _dear one_ , aren't you,  _carissimus?_ "

It was said in such a scathing tone that Athos was completely floored, his mouth dropping open at hearing that tender endearment in Aramis' voice rather than Ninon's, and hearing it warped with something accusing.

Porthos stepped in between them, his voice a rumble that wasn't quite soothing and more… desperate. "Enough, Aramis, leave 'im alone, he can do what 'e wants."

"No," Aramis cried, almost shrill in its outrage, "he can't, not if it's with  _her._ "

Porthos whirled on Aramis, hands grabbing for Aramis' shoulders, shaking him gently. "Fuck's sake, stop, you're gonna say somethin' you regret—"

"—Wait," Athos interrupted quietly, and the pair of them froze, Porthos' sigh colouring the air as Athos stepped to his side, meeting light brown eyes that suddenly blinked uncertainly. "I'm not sure at what point it became okay for  _you_ to call me 'dear', and yet my oldest friend cannot, or did I give some tacit approval around the same time you started sneaking around behind my back?"

Porthos twitched so violently that Athos wanted to reach for him, but doing so would mean reaching for Aramis, too. Athos' eyes narrowed, and with it, he layered his voice with frost, "How long have you been interested in Ninon?"

"Ninon?" Aramis asked, apparently as gobsmacked as Porthos, whose eyes had widened to the size of saucers even as he seemed to take a shuddering breath. "Athos, I don't care about Ninon except what she is to  _you._ "

Athos neared then, holding Aramis' chin in the crook of one finger as Porthos sucked in a breath. "She is important to me, and therefore off-limits."

Aramis' gaze darted over his face, Aramis' pulse quickening against Athos' palm where it brushed his jaw. "I'm not interested in her."

Athos scoffed in disbelief, and a sliver of hurt dashed across Aramis' face. "She's beautiful, smart, witty; everything you love."

"Yes," Aramis whispered, seemingly unable to look away from him, "beautiful, mind like a labyrinth, with a tongue too sharp for me."

Athos released him with a huff of a bitter laugh, "And yet still you want to taste it?"

Aramis' nod was small but determined, and Porthos turned to Athos with a cautious look. "Can you blame 'im?"

Athos was snared by two dark pairs of eyes, and for all of his exhaustion, something still managed to flutter treacherously in his chest. He spun away with a pissed off sigh. "No, when can I ever?"

"So," Aramis asked gingerly, "are you angry?"

There was an uncomfortable stickiness on the back of Athos' neck and he had to stop himself from touching it. "I should be. Why Ninon, Aramis, of all people?"

Aramis slouched slightly, sitting on the backs of his calves. "I don't, honestly, it's just like, I don't know, appreciating fine art."

Porthos' smile was more of a flash of clenched teeth. "Look but don't touch?"

Aramis and Porthos shared a look before pinning Athos with their gazes, again, whose fingers feathered over the stinging on his scalp, torn between needing answers and needing absolute silence.

The overwhelming urge to stay close to them won out. "Why were you so aggressive, then?"

Aramis looked at the floor remorsefully. "It's been a difficult term,  _mon cher_." Athos' eyes closed at the endearment, but he felt Aramis' return to him. "We care about you, Athos," Aramis said with quiet intensity, pushing against Porthos' arm to try and reach him, but Porthos knew Athos well enough to not let him go.

"We just don't want you to get hurt, Athos," Porthos added, his smile tentative, as if he were walking a live minefield.

"I'm not likely to walk into the road again." His dry tone wasn't appreciated if Porthos' grimace was any indication.

"Not like that, just hurt… in general."

"Hurt by Ninon, Athos," Aramis said insistently, and Porthos shot him a look which he ignored. "You never tell us about your last relationship, except that it ended badly, and we're… worried… for you."

Athos' fingers hovered perilously close to the crescent wounds in his skin, but he thought that his blood was too sluggish to even make it through his stopped heart.

Aramis was apparently on a roll, leaning heavily against Porthos' restrained arm, as if eager to be closer to him. "Earlier, in your room, after you yelled at d'Artagnan, you looked—"

"—I know how I looked, Aramis," he interrupted tersely, clutching for irritation when everything else wobbled. "Unhinged, unstable, blaming d'Artagnan for my own mistakes."

"No! That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean then, that I—" Athos clamped his mouth shut on the words that wanted so desperately to be released.

_That I almost fucked everything up with us, because I wanted to kiss you so badly that it hurt?_

"That I looked broken?" Athos finished, a resentful twist to his honest words, for was that not what he was when he craved things he shouldn't from his two best friends?

Aramis let out a noise of pain, and Porthos a growl of disagreement, and then they moved.

Athos closed his eyes when they each approached a side, forming a triangle that they only meant to reassure, but all it did was smash at his already failing defences, have him snapping for air and stability and  _anything_ other than this devastation of his shields.

Aramis' hands clasped one of his, and Porthos' chest rested against his other arm. Warmth spread in colourful tendrils, restarting his pulse with sickening efficiency, but still Athos was wondering how he had fucked up quite so spectacularly – but then, this wasn't the first time, was it?

He had nowhere to run, not this time. He was already panting, his last escape harshly fought for; running again would just put him on the path home, and that was unacceptable, a last resort.

Still, this couldn't continue, the constant fear of being caught – from this life and the last. He wasn't sure he would come out whole after this.

And he was tired of falling apart.

"I don't think I can live here, anymore," Athos forced out, and the words fell like rocks into an iced-over pond.

"What?" Aramis dumbfounded was a rare sight, but Athos was too heartsick to appreciate it, so he edged a little further from them, further from temptation, until his back pressed against the wall and the coldness seeped in.

"This constant surveillance, I feel like," Athos flared a hand, looking for an answer, and found it in the ugliest of places, "I feel like a child. My every move judged, weighed, measured – it's like living with my parents."

It was Porthos who was angry this time, and Aramis who held out a hand to wrap around Porthos' wrist when he growled, "When 'ave we done anythin' that's kept you back, Athos, kept you down?"

Athos flinched, well aware of how they tried their best to hold him up, but he was a burden too great for them to bear, and it made him bitter. "At least they approved of the time I spent with Ninon."

"Yeah, 'cause they wanted you to marry 'er."

"Until a better offer came along, yes," Athos hissed, perversely pleased when they both reeled in surprise. "Ninon was my best friend, my  _world_ , and they kept me from her, scared that I would break an arrangement I had no part in."

Porthos' expression was hesitant. "That when you went back to France?"

"I loved her and they snatched me from her side, dragged me back to  _mon pays natal,_ but it didn't feel like home anymore, and it never did again."

Athos dragged his hand from his head, for no physical pain could overthrow the aged ache that still lingered in his bones. Melancholy was a wet weight in his breath as he shook his head slowly. "I can't do this."

_I'm sorry,_ he almost said, but was no longer sure if he was.

Instead, he left, and there were no footsteps to follow him, only a stunned silence and the ragged beat to his heart which felt full of holes.

As Athos pulled up onto a familiar street, it occurred to him that if Porthos had told Charon the truth, it would mean that Porthos had only been interested in men since he came to university, specifically since he had met…

Athos's fingers creeped up to his scalp as he felt his stomach shivering, his throat clenching against something painful, and he refused to acknowledge why.

He refused to acknowledge why angels suit each other, especially when his own wings had been broken by a doe-eyed demon who had tried to destroy him.

Athos stood in front of a large black door, and when it opened, a single sob escaped him.

"Come here,  _carissimus._ "

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ow.  
> Catch me on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/)!


	12. Nosce te Ipsum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know thyself.
> 
> For those of you that follow me on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/), you'll know I lost 20k's worth of fic last week. Fortunately, however, this was being beta'd and therefore kept safe! My notes on 13 were one of the casualties though, so bear with me on that, and please, for the sake of the fic, go and back up your files! <3

> If you think I won't find romance in the French Foreign Legion,  
>  Think about that uniform with all its charm.  
>  Just one more time, are you gonna be mine, or  _au revoir cheri_ ,  
>  It's the French Foreign Legion for me.
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra, _'French Foreign Legion'_

Athos awoke to silk against his cheek, the scent of champagne and Chanel in his nose, and his hand curled up in an expanse of gold. Fingers stroked through his hair with the hum of a French lullaby, and for a brief, heady moment, Athos was catapulted into the past.

"I couldn't remember whether you loved or hated Marmite," Ninon remarked softly. "It's irrelevant now, of course, because I ate your toast."

"I hate Marmite," he muttered into the silken threads of his feather pillow.

"Just as well then," she replied brightly, and snickered when he drew the gold-sheeted duvet over his head in a vain attempt to escape. "Still useless in the morning, I see."

"If you hadn't insisted on staying up with me all night, this wouldn't be an issue," he growled, eyes itchy from not enough sleep.

"And woken up to see the wine cabinet empty and a dent in the salmon? I think not."

Ninon yanked the duvet off of his head to see his smirk. "I haven't stolen salmon from the fridge in years."

"Of course you haven't," she teased, and glanced down at his shirt. "I'm going to iron that before you leave – why do you still insist on sleeping in your clothes?"

Athos snorted in reluctant amusement, he had heard the same sentiment from Aramis many times before. "If I'm too drunk to think – which is normally the aim – I can hardly be expected to get undressed."

Ninon rolled her eyes and blew annoyingly in his ear. "Lazybones, get up and come downstairs, I'm making you a cup of tea."

"Earl Grey?" he asked hopefully, and heard her soft scoff from down the hallway.

"No, breakfast, and for each minute you take, I'm putting a spoonful of sugar in."

Ninon was the only one who knew he was partial to the very rare cup of tea when he wasn't sipping some hair of the dog, and it wasn't the first time she had threatened him with sweetener – or exposure of his guilty tannin habit.

Athos grimaced and, with a great strength of will, slithered out of the bed. It was lower than he had remembered, or perhaps he was simply taller, but he fell to the floor with a bump, and sagged against his knees.

He had been a wreck, yesterday, and that was before he had started drinking. Ninon had borne him from the front door to the parlour, wordlessly passing him a bottle of wine before disappearing to make her excuses to Constance.

It was one of his favourites, dry and – Athos winced – tart.

Ninon had wisely taken his phone from him when he had delved into  _perhaps if I call everyone I know, I'll feel better_ territory, but it was waiting for him on the breakfast bar as he stumbled into the kitchen, letting his memories lead him around the sprawling townhouse.

14 unread text messages, 8 missed calls, and 5 emails.

He was in no state of mind to read the texts, but for the sake of his newspaper's dying breath, he checked his emails. All four major submissions were in way ahead of schedule, d'Artagnan's with an extra article they needed, and Aramis' with a flurry of kisses in the subject line.

The fifth email was from Treville, and Athos' stomach threatened to revolt.

"I have to write an apology in the paper to Bonacieux," Athos mumbled against the cool marble countertop, and Ninon gave him a look of true horror.

"Surely not, isn't that just stoking the fire?"

Athos lifted his head to stare balefully at his phone. "Apparently it's dousing the fire through sincere regret – none of which I feel, of course."

"Who would? The guy was a  _cūlus._ "

Athos felt a wry smile tug at his mouth as he counted the ways in which he loved her, Latin insults being one, or two. "I think his being an arse was rather the cause of this."

Ninon stopped stirring the tea to give him a surprised laugh. "That is not even close to your sense of humour, where did you pick that up from?"

"Porthos," Athos supplied, his smile faltering, and Ninon gave him a concerned look before putting a cup and saucer before him and fixing his hair.

"You are a mess, Comte."

Athos growled half-heartedly at the nickname but submitted to her hands in his hair, soothed by the motions, as he always had been when they were younger, as he always was when Aramis did it.

Athos made an exhausted noise against his cup and Ninon reached around to tap him on the nose. "You aren't allowed to mope anymore.  _Nil desperandum._ "

"I am neither moping nor despairing – but were I, your kitchen is the best place for it."

Athos realised with a little twitch that Ninon was being very careful around his scalp, and braced himself against a lecture or questions about the self-inflicted injury there. "I'm not making you salmon and eggs."

"Blast," Athos muttered distractedly, and vowed to shower her in gifts when he was feeling a little more in control.

Sometimes he thought that Ninon knew him better than anyone else in the world.

There was a startled inhale from across the kitchen, and they both looked up to see Constance staring at them in confusion.

"Come in, Constance, there's a cup of tea on the counter for you," Ninon said easily, giving Athos' hair a last pat to which he murmured his thanks.

It took Constance a moment to respond, her gaze darting between the two of them. "When you said you had company, I didn't think…"

Athos gave her a self-deprecating smile. "Welcome to another of my bi-annual breakdowns."

Constance's surprise notched up higher at his candid attitude, and even Ninon slid him a glance. Athos simply sighed, for what was the point of covering it up? He had retreated to his place of safety – as he had once always done – because he was falling apart inside.

He had enough secrets already, and, well, Constance had seen him like this before.

Constance approached warily. "This isn't exactly the Guards' paper outselling ours."

"No," he admitted, frowning at that unpleasant memory, "but this was wine instead of whiskey."

Ninon laughed over the sound of the sink splashing, "A controlled explosion, if you will."

Athos' chuckle was quiet but it hitched slightly when his phone buzzed, and he swallowed hard as he flipped it over so he couldn't see who it was.

Constance's attention jumped to it, and when he would have expected her to ask her probing questions, as she always did, she instead glanced at Ninon and remained silent.

Athos frowned but, with the remnants of his hangover still buzzing in his head, ignored what he could have sworn was a protective purse of Ninon's lips. "Thanks for your article, by the way, very early."

"Oh, it's fine; I needed something to distract myself." Constance looked between them for a moment. "I'm going back to campus to get some of my things; I'll be back later, if that's okay?"

Ninon nodded, and her smile was fond when Athos offered out of instinct, "Would you like some help?"

"No, Athos, it's fine." It came across as quite brusque, and it was obvious why when Constance hesitated before she left the room. "Aramis texted me." Athos met Ninon's eye for a moment, and Constance's jaw tightened irritably. "You're leaving, then?"

What little energy Athos had summoned from sleep and caffeine was swiftly drained away by her accusing tone. "I'm hardly leaving, Constance – you live in a separate building, don't you?"

Constance drew herself up in affront at that. "It's not the same thing; you've lived with them for two years."

"Yes, exactly, I need some time to myself." Athos' teeth were in danger of grinding against each other, especially when Constance gave him a look that said he was useless without them.

No, wait, that wasn't what it said…

Ninon frowned, realising at the same time as him, and one slim hand lifted from her crossed-arms stance. "He's not moving in with me."

Constance blinked a few times. "Oh, isn't he?"

"No," Athos said in amusement, "I believe we both happened to use Ninon's as simply an impromptu escape."

Ninon hummed in faux-irritation, smiling when Athos shot her a smirk, and Constance eyed Athos as if he was a particularly disturbing puzzle. "Then… where will you go?"

Athos let one shoulder rise and fall. "It's nothing to concern yourself with; you won't even notice the difference."

Constance's eyes flashed, the usual precursor to her firebrand anger, and when Ninon shifted slightly in some sort of interruption, Constance said in a fluster, "I'm sorry, Ninon, but he's an idiot."

Athos was left staring at an empty doorway, turning slowly when he heard the front door close. "What happened?"

Ninon settled in the seat next to him. "Of course she'll notice a difference, Athos, you're making waves."

"Ripples, surely."

"What may seem a ripple to you can seem a wave to someone else," Ninon commented, but when his brow darkened, she sighed and leaned her shoulder against his. "So,  _carissimus,_ what are we doing today?"

His heart gave an odd sort of lurch at the endearment, and Athos fought against slumping in his chair. "Is drowning in wine an option?"

"No," her stern tone was belied by the glitter of laughter in her eyes. "You're going to have a shower so I can wash your shirt, then we're going for afternoon tea."

Athos grumbled at what sounded like an entirely too active schedule. "I have the feeling I'm not being given a choice, here."

"That's because you aren't." Ninon delicately sipped at her tea and used her nose to point at the door. "On you go."

He flicked her cheek but did as bid. "Imp."

There was a moment when Athos knew exactly where he was going, where the towels were kept, how the shower worked, that he flitted between past and present. He had contemplated running the last time he had been in this room, escaping the unknown, the uncertain, the unfamiliar.

It wasn't unfamiliar this time, though, because he knew their heartbeats better than he knew his own – which was running remarkably ragged as of late.

Athos winced when the water hit his sensitive scalp, and glowered at the rust-coloured water that swirled into the drain.

It was familiarity that was the problem, it was baring too much of himself rather than too little, it was reacting to Aramis' teasing fingers against his chin as Porthos touched his heart, it was realising that he had failed.

No matter how often Athos had denied it, his promises, his pleas, his prayers, he was simply a marionette doll, and where he used his strings to keep himself distant, Aramis had cut them and Porthos had caught him.

Had  _tried_  to catch him, had  _tried_  to cut the strings, for where was he now, but back where he had started?

Athos had stood here before, his knuckles whitening on the marble countertop, his gaze desperate in the steamed mirror, his mind lost in the scent of champagne and Chanel.

He would not be controlled again, not taken from Ninon again, and if that meant putting a little distance between the three of them, that's what he would do.

Athos clutched at his chest, at the inherent  _wrongness_ of that thought, of leaving them. But surely it was no more wrong than the other thoughts, the ones that had bade him seek out home in the first place.

Aramis and Porthos were the beginning and the end of Athos' problems and he had no idea what to do about that.

They made him vulnerable, through some black magic he always ended up back in their arms. He needed some time to wrest control over his own life, even if it was just a semblance, for he would always be just a puppet on a brief hiatus overseas,  _la Fère_ practically stamped on his skin.

Those strings were tight around his aching joints, and it was all he could do not to obey their tug. How much could he deny himself before the cracks in his tarnished wood started to split?

Every day was a fight, and he was tired of fighting on two fronts. Returning to his parents wasn't an option, that fight had to continue, and so he had to flee from the other.

 _Flee_ , he mused, the word a familiar sting, a familiar weakness, but it was a lesser evil. Perhaps, this way, he would not risk their friendship with every second he spent with them.

If they would want to see him at all, after yesterday.

There was a new shirt on the bed when he stepped out of the shower, and Athos made a mental note to compliment Ninon's father on his taste. The white was a little too bright for his mood, but it wasn't worth the fight with Ninon – which he would definitely lose, anyway.

Another similarity to Aramis, although Athos' win-rate was a little higher, there.

"I'll have to clear out a wardrobe again if you're going to keep popping over," Ninon teased as Athos fiddled with the slightly shorter cuffs.

"I'll send my next order directly to yours, then, shall I?" When they stepped onto the street, he flagged the first cab that he saw, and held the door open for Ninon. "Where to?"

"The Wolseley, please," she called to the driver, and snickered when Athos gave her an inquiring look. "I want cake, and you need somewhere to stay if you're set on moving out."

Athos' next breath was a little pained as he once again remembered, but it eased when her hand came to rest on his forearm. "I'm not pushing you out, you know that."

"I know, I can look after myself better than Constance can."

Ninon snorted, "No, you can't, but you can put yourself up in a hotel and she can't."

"Your faith in me is truly inspiring."

She smacked him on the arm, and then beat him to the punch by swiping her credit card across the cab's reader before he could. "You're welcome," she interrupted before he could say anything, "now scoot, I want my cake."

Before long, Ninon munched happily on a tiny sandwich and then eyed him as she prepared a scone, wielding the knife with wicked efficiency as she slathered clotted cream over jam. "So, any idea on what happens next?"

Athos settled into his chair, head lolling backwards. "No, I thought everything would become clear, but it hasn't."

"Does that mean it's the right thing to do?"

Athos met her perceptive gaze steadily, chewing carefully on his tongue as he chose his words. Things had been said the night before that Ninon, more than anyone else, related to, and she knew him well enough not to bring up the specifics today.

He never had been very good at  _talking_ , as the argument with Aramis and Porthos had been testament to, but at least he had kept the objects of his affections a secret from Ninon, even when she had asked sleepy questions with her head on his chest.

Those were answers he would take to the grave.

Of course, so would she, but it was too late to tell her everything, now, the time had passed, Athos had started shoring up his defences.

Time to move on.

Without thinking, Athos accepted the scone Ninon offered. "If it means I'm not constantly watching myself then, yes, it does." Ninon laughed when he realised he had bitten into his scone, and he made a face at the sweetness before passing it back.

"Everyone watches themselves, perhaps us more than most, but everyone has things they can't do, can't say, shouldn't feel."

"Those are choices, this," Athos exhaled noisily, "this isn't."

Ninon nodded, conceding the point surprisingly easily. "You're running, then." She held her hands up when he levelled a scowl at her. "I'm simply calling it as I see it, and what I see is you, on my doorstep, again, but you left of your own accord this time."

Athos' words from yesterday flitted through his head,  _they snatched me from her side._

"Evidently, I wasn't missed," he remarked, and tried to make it sound dispassionate, but knew he failed when Ninon looked pointedly at his vibrating phone. "If they were truly worried then they would have found me."

"No, you aren't allowed to say that, Athos, that's unfair." Ninon placed her plate down decisively, her brows lowering with it. "Run if you think it's what you need, but you can't say that they don't care."

Athos gave a grudging acceptance, growling, "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am, but so are they."

"They ran me out," he declared hotly, but Ninon simply leaned back in her chair and eyed him coolly. Athos had to look away, to screw his fingers up in the napkin on his lap. "It's not as if I want to get a foot on the property ladder, but what else can I do? I need space, my  _own_ space."

Ninon didn't protest his change of subject, nor did she bother giving simpler options; dorm switching – which would be upsetting for everyone, or staying in a hotel indefinitely – not exactly conducive to his desire for insularity.

Ninon mulled it over, picking idly at some cake. "If you're looking for something more permanent, you could stay at Ben's."

Athos' brow puckered. "He isn't in town?" Athos liked Ninon's uncle; he always used to let them have a snifter of whatever he was drinking, so very susceptible to their pleading cries.

It was because of Benedict that Athos had such an educated palette so early on.

"He's in Dubai indefinitely and gave me the house-keys in case I wanted to move out."

"You don't?"

Ninon looked at him as if he was mad and Athos had to concede the point, Ninon's parents were wonderful and, for the most part, let her get away with murder.

They had their flaws, of course, and it was one in particular that had them both empathising so sorely with each other.

Ninon knew when he had started thinking about it, about the unfairness of life, because the curve of her mouth was more than a little rueful. " _Nil desperandum_ , remember?"

Athos took a measured breath. " _Bien sûr, ma cherie._ "

 

* * *

 

Athos stood in the beautiful house's foyer and exclaimed, "Why exactly did he need three floors?"

Ninon flicked the lights on with a practiced hand. "If I recall correctly, the exercise did him good – oh, and he wanted the balcony."

Athos' eyebrows rose as they wandered around the house. He wasn't surprised at the affluence – if anything he was reassured by it – but he was surprised at the  _comfort_ of the place.

Having grown up in a house where the price tag was more important than its usefulness, it was always a treat going to Ninon's, where it felt more like a home,  _his_ home.

It seemed the trait ran in the Larroque family.

"The master bedroom takes up most of the top floor, the study has the rest – but you could probably fit an actual bed in there if the sofa bed isn't to your taste."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "There's already a guest bedroom on the middle floor."

"Yes, well, if you had more than one guest, you'll be grateful for the space," she said airily, and pushed him into the sitting room before he could ask her what sort of plans she had for this place – and why they seemed to involve a particular  _three_ bedrooms.

"Aha," she called victoriously as she opened the fridge cleverly integrated into the media unit and drew out some wine. "He wanted the sitting room on the middle floor so he wouldn't be bothered by any guests."

"Smart man."

A vintage bottle later, Athos repeated himself to Ninon's giggle, and when his phone buzzed, Athos only opened it when d'Artagnan's signature text tone of dogs barking sounded.

[Hey, when are you back? Want to go over my next article with you.]

"D'Artagnan," he murmured in explanation, and Ninon's smile was doting.

"Invite him over; he's probably worried about you."

Athos gave her an unimpressed look, placing his phone screen-down so that he didn't have to look at it. "I thought this was meant to be my place for escape?"

Ninon made a considering noise, watching the way Athos' gaze flicked to his phone when it sounded the first distinctive cry of Led Zeppelin's  _'Immigrant Song'_.

 _Porthos,_ his treacherous heart trembled.

"Is escape what you truly want?"

"I thought we had discussed—"

Ninon moved, her knees drawing up onto the sofa so that she could face him properly. "You forget, Comte _,_ I know you here," her palm rested over his heart. " _Nosce te ipsum."_

Athos heaved an impatient breath. "What is there to know, Ninon? That I'm incapable of dealing with emotion?"

"Incapable only by choice," she insisted. "Emotion is a river, and you've built a dam against it."

Athos scowled at the accurate analogy. "Is that so wrong?"

"Yes," she said softly, and when he tried to scoff, she lifted her other hand to cup his cheek. "Don't lock them out, Athos, they're trying to be patient with you."

"What do emotions have to be patient for?" he muttered mutinously, as if he had no idea what she was actually talking about, but Ninon just rolled her eyes and pecked him on the nose. Athos stood when she rose from her seat, uncertainty reigning over his features. "Are you off?"

"I have class in an hour, as – if I recall correctly – do you." There was no chide in her voice, only a statement of fact, but Athos folded his arms and looked away regardless.

"Yes, well, I'm claiming bereavement." Athos winced the second he had used the word.

Ninon simply hummed in acknowledgement, but Athos knew her too well not to hear the infuriatingly  _knowing_ tune to it.

Damn her.

Ninon turned on the spot once she stood in the open doorway, finally referencing who Athos had spent the last twenty-four hours  _not_ referencing.

"You'll have to see them at some point, Athos." She kissed him on one cheek and then the other. "I don't think they're angry with you."

"That's worse," he said quietly, but she gave no indication of hearing and he was left to keep an eye on her as she hailed a cab and gave him a two-fingered wave from the window.

Athos closed the door, his back resting against it as he looked up at the ceiling so very far above.

The house was very quiet, now.

If this was control, it was a lonely thing.

The first thing he did, after texting d'Artagnan the address and promising to pay the cab fare, was call up for a delivery, emphasising strongly on the alcohol content of his diet.

He had drunk most of his melancholy away, but there was no saying what would happen later.

Athos ordered by instinct, mouth shaping names before he realised, and he added a few extras to the order – one with a disgustingly high price tag, the other disgustingly low.

The latter didn't arrive in time to be eagerly grasped by d'Artagnan, the boy having arrived with all haste. Athos only realised when he had heard d'Artagnan's awed gasp sound through the silent house, and opened the door to d'Artagnan's fist raised to knock.

"Bloody hell!"

"Accurate, come in."

To Athos' amusement, d'Artagnan was careful to remove his shoes before stepping on the pretty parquet flooring, his head tilting further and further back when he realised how tall the building was.

Athos' cough brought him back down, that and the only beer Athos had managed to find – a privately brewed beauty that went completely unnoticed by d'Artagnan's taste buds.

"I should have called," Athos said by way of apology, leading d'Artagnan upstairs to the sitting room, which earned another enraptured inhale, this time because of the 60-inch television fastened to the wall.

"Don't worry about it, Ninon texted me last night," d'Artagnan supplied a little nervously, and then with a considerable amount of fidgeting, added, "and Constance texted me this morning."

Athos paused, raising an apathetic eyebrow as he retook his seat. "She did, did she?"

D'Artagnan, apparently fully involved in the  _mi casa es su casa_ ideal that Athos hadn't voiced, threw himself onto the other end of the sofa. "Yeah, um, just to say that you were… okay."

Athos stared at him, at the fiddling of his fingers and the shiftiness of his gaze, and eventually Athos sighed and shook his head. "You are terrible at lying, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan flushed defensively. "I don't think that's a bad thing."

Athos gave the boy a reluctantly amused smile. "No, I suppose not – go on, then. What did she say?"

"Just that you had stayed over at Ninon's, but that you looked, er, fragile."

Athos' laugh was more of an exhale, "Fragile?"

"Y'know,  _don't provoke him_ type thing."

Athos inclined his head, mouth twisting unhappily as he thought it through. "Did this text go out to anyone else?"

"Ninon's didn't." D'Artagnan looked intently at a particular point on the ceiling, and Athos' forehead found his palm in a loud smack.

" _Mon Dieu,_ so Constance's did, then?" Athos spared a moment to be utterly grateful for Ninon's good sense – and to wonder when she and d'Artagnan had exchanged numbers – before wondering what Porthos and Aramis' reactions had been to that revelation.

"I heard Porthos shouting when Constance's text came through," d'Artagnan admitted quietly, like a child who had witnessed his parents fighting.

"Fragile.  _Putain de bordel de merde,_ " Athos hissed tiredly, and glanced from under his fingers to see d'Artagnan staring at him in surprise. Athos squeezed the bridge of his nose and offered wearily, "They're convinced that Ninon has nefarious designs on me."

"Oh." D'Artagnan fiddled with his beer, focused on picking at the label. "I don't think she would do that."

Athos' wry smile was full of affection for the boy. "No, neither do I."

To d'Artagnan's credit, his determination was admirable, even if he didn't look directly at Athos. "So I think you should talk to them, tell them that."

That was the last thing Athos wanted to do, to have to  _explain_ himself to them? It was absurd. He wasn't sure if he could even bear to be around them, because he knew that he would relent, return to their side.

And like a log caught in a fire, he would crack.

"You do, do you?"

D'Artagnan nodded, studiously ignoring Athos' warning tone. "They seem lost without you."

Athos managed to stop himself from inhaling sharply, stunned at hearing the void inside of him given a term. "Lost?"

"Porthos keeps almost calling your name before he cuts himself off, and Aramis has been standing in your room, just staring. It's like you  _died,_ " d'Artagnan said with a strange look, "it's weird."

"That is quite weird," Athos acknowledged, his phone suddenly ringing with the full chorus of  _'Immigrant Song'._

D'Artagnan glanced at him briefly, his expression clearly saying,  _see?_

Athos silenced it. "Finish your beer."

The smallest flicker of d'Artagnan's lip had Athos smothering his own rueful smile.

Damn him.

A companionable silence fell, broken only by d'Artagnan's fidgeting as he looked around the high-tech room, and then a dubious, "Do you even know how to work the telly?"

Athos blinked. "Should I?"

The next few hours passed between snatches of television and d'Artagnan's patient efforts to explain the unfathomable remote –  _remotes,_ plural, why there were so many, Athos still didn't know.

At one point, d'Artagnan rose to turn on the lights, before recognising a symbol on the switch, which prompted him to disappear downstairs on the search for something called an  _app-controlled light,_ much to Athos' continued confusion.

It was only exacerbated when d'Artagnan cried out in delight, "It's all automated!"

Athos threw one of the offending remotes across the room and strolled innocently into the hallway. "One of those  _homes from the future_? You would think it would be easier to use, then."

There was a blur, and then d'Artagnan had raced past him and up the stairs, throwing open the master bedroom door with an accompanying set of noises from his phone. "It controls  _everything_." There was a pause, a laugh, and then the sound of running water. "I just turned the shower on!"

"Yes, I can hear," Athos remarked dubiously, standing back when d'Artagnan skidded back into the sitting room.

"No, you don't understand, it's all controlled by your phone – give it."

"Please," Athos corrected, but was promptly ignored as d'Artagnan snatched it from his hands and ran downstairs again. With a bemused shake of his head, Athos returned to his wine and wondered when technology had wormed its way into everything.

Against his wishes, he suddenly thought,  _Aramis and Porthos would love this place._

Mozart started playing at an ear-splitting volume, Athos' glass ringing in his hands, and he raised his scowl onto a guilty d'Artagnan once the sound had quietened to more tolerable levels.

"Sorry, was just trying to find something you'd like."

"Mozart, how cliché." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, making Athos smile. "Thank you, it's very clever."

D'Artagnan preened, his grin a wondering thing. "It's so cool, I wish I could stay."

Athos paused, his smile wavering. Thankfully, d'Artagnan was distracted by the slightly off-colour windows, prodding them experimentally as Athos offered, "You can, if you wish."

"I left my essay in my room, it's due first thing," d'Artagnan remarked, squinting at what looked like lights worked into the glass framing. "Could I, maybe, come over tomorrow?"

"To see me or the windows?"

D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder with a grin. "Whichever gets me invited back."

"You're welcome whenever, d'Artagnan – if only because I doubt I'll get anything working without your help."

It was the closest he had come to an open offer of friendship that he had ever given, and the beam that d'Artagnan gave him went some way towards easing the turmoil still twining through him.

"Awesome, tomorrow then, I'll text you."

"Please do," Athos clarified a want for a warning, earning another grin, one that turned thoughtful as they passed the kitchen. "Yes, you may take another beer."

Athos was being hugged before he realised, a quick, grateful thing, and then d'Artagnan was off in his usual speedy way, the house once again falling into silence.

It was only when Athos could hear his own breathing again that he realised they hadn't talked about d'Artagnan's article once.

Athos' smile was rueful, and he flicked his phone open presumably before d'Artagnan had even left the street. [Brat, I said one beer.]

When it buzzed, Athos opened it without looking, and he choked on his wine when his eye caught on too many kisses and not enough punctuation.

_No, not now, not yet._

The thread of texts had opened now, repeated questions,  _are you okay?_ Repeated pleas,  _please call us._ Repeated endearments,  _mon cher, mi querido_ – that one had Athos tossing his wine back in one ungrateful gulp.

A memory from last year after a night out, Porthos sprawled over the foot of the bed, Aramis having wriggled right into Athos' arms, and as Athos drifted from sloshed to sleep, he heard that one word through a litany of others, soft Spanish whispered into his neck.

Sometimes he thought he caught the words in his dreams, but all he had when he woke was the feeling of missing something important, and a raging fury that had to be released.

Control was such a fleeting, meaningless thing.

Athos soaked in the silence for a while, trying to draw it into himself even as he tried to push it away with fleeting, meaningless noises.

When Athos' phone finally buzzed again, he was ready to throw it across the room, but then  _'Sugar Plum Fairy'_ sounded and Athos picked it up immediately.

"I have two very upset boys on my doorstep," Ninon said, her voice light with amusement. There was a growl in the background, and Ninon laughed, "Sorry, one upset boy and a concerned man. I think they belong to you."

There was a taut silence that seemed to stretch for eternity, and then Aramis' very quiet, "Athos?"

Athos keened, high and pained, the noise tearing through his throat as his eyes closed. "Fine, send them over."  _So weak,_ he told himself,  _so fucking weak._

He told himself that over and over again, pacing angrily from wall to wall, and when the doorbell went and Athos flinched, he told himself again.

Athos heaved three breaths, psyching himself up to  _open the fucking door_ , and… there they were.

They had, Athos noted absently, dressed up. Porthos was in his closest approximation to a shirt, even his boots looked like they had been cleaned, his smile a tentative lift at one corner. Aramis' hair was ruffled from his fingers, but it sprung in endearingly messy curls around his nervous laugh, his aftershave like the smell of pie in cartoons, tickling temptingly at Athos' nose.

 _I think they belong to you,_ Ninon had said, and Athos wanted to roll himself up in a big ball and die.  _If only._

Athos didn't trust his voice, whether it would shake or say things he shouldn't, so he simply stepped aside and waved them in.

The turmoil within him finally started to calm at their presence, at the sense of safety hidden under his panic.  _Self-inflicted panic_ , he amended on Ninon's judgement, but still cursed himself for still finding them safe.

Control was fleeting and meaningless, Athos remembered, and he wondered whether it was something he would ever have, could even attain, or if he was only fit to be a puppet, now, raised only by someone else's careless hand, strings always pulled tight.

And yet, on some greedy instinct for the times they had held him almost reverently, Athos inhaled as they passed. Aramis' cinnamon and Porthos' sandalwood, both of them tinged with the clean scent of sweat, as they did just after fencing.

Athos' eyes widened. " _Merde,_ the society—"

"—S'fine," Porthos interjected, jaw clenching slightly when Aramis immediately wandered off to explore, "apparently your email got around."

"My email?"

"Yeah." Porthos' hand reached up to his neck. "The one excusin' you from class."

If Athos had been the type to flush, he would have done, instead he just wished himself anywhere other than here. "Ah, yes, my bereavement."

Porthos nodded, but then he grinned, a lopsided thing. "Sorry for your loss."

Athos looked away, his mouth curving of its own accord. "Thank you."

Porthos reached out to clap him on the shoulder, paused, and then did it anyway. "Now move on."

Athos' laugh was a quieter version of Porthos', but both trailed off before it was time, and they both looked up gratefully when Aramis came in, mouth agape.

"This place is gorgeous, it must cost a fortune."

Athos sensed Porthos' sudden tension, and it was replicated in Aramis when Athos replied, "It's Ninon's, she's letting me borrow it – well, have it, really, for a time."

Aramis nodded as if he felt he had to. "Oh, right, yes, of course."

Porthos' hand was back at his neck. "How's Constance?"

Athos bit back the acidic response he was tempted to make, that they had spoken to her after he had. "Fine, angry, but that's to be expected, I suppose." Athos' eyes narrowed anyway, realising that someone had told them he had gone to Ninon's, and only two people had known.

"Did d'Artagnan call you?" Athos asked suspiciously, and they both frowned, Porthos turning to nudge Aramis on the shoulder.

"Told you he knew somethin'."

"Please," Aramis scoffed, "d'Artagnan considers everything a secret, it could have been anything from lottery numbers to what cocktail was on offer at happy hour."

Porthos' chuckle was easier this time around, but then it, too, faded. "How did 'e know?"

Athos opened his mouth, his phone barking as he did so, and with it came inspiration. "I needed a hand, there's a television remote up there that has eighty-three more buttons than it should."

Porthos grinned. "So, eighty-four in total?"

Aramis snickered, "Eighty-five, surely, one to turn it on, one to change the channel."

Porthos' fingers touched his forehead and flicked outwards, as if exclaiming an obvious point. "Naturally."

Athos vainly tried to turn his smile into a sneer. "We'll see who's complaining when you realise that, somehow, I can control everything from here."

Athos waved his phone and Porthos grimaced, "Us, we'll still be complainin', you can barely change a battery."

"Critic," Athos murmured, and this time, the laughter was truly easy.

The reunion was interrupted by the doorbell going again, Porthos' eyebrows rising when he saw the amount of alcohol barely contained in plastic bags. "Plannin' a party?"

Athos shrugged, his panic betraying him when Porthos found his favourite beer amidst Aramis' preferred wines. "I just repeated our last order."

Porthos made an acknowledging noise, but Athos felt the considering stare on the back of his head as he deposited more bottles in the cabinet.

Finally, with a white wine in the cooler and a red nestled at Athos' side, he sat where he had all day, which put the other two cushions empty. Only for a moment though, because Porthos settled at the other side and Aramis forced his way onto Porthos' lap, as he so often did.

Except that Porthos didn't normally mutter something under his breath and Aramis didn't normally hesitate. Aramis ignoring Porthos was normal though, as was the quiet clink of glasses when Aramis insisted they toasted  _our gracious host_ , and although Athos' spine had stiffened, he involuntarily relaxed when Porthos' ankle nudged against his and stayed there.

Little things, just tiny, little things, like drops of rain on a sloped roof, a gentle pitter-pattering of quiet comfort.

That quickly turned into an onslaught.

"It was so strange without you," Aramis said from over his glass, sipping with a nonchalance that none of them were actually feeling.

Athos' smile was forced, his tone mocking, "I've barely been gone a day."

"Yes, but," Aramis looked down, "you chose to go."

Athos flinched, shifting slightly until his ankle didn't brush Porthos' anymore. Porthos rearranged until it did again, and caught Athos' alarmed look with a warning one.

It said,  _don't try me._

Athos bristled, his earlier want of control raging back to the surface, but then Porthos looked away, his leg still pressing insistently against Athos'. "Yeah, well, we didn't come to talk about that, remember?"

Aramis gave Porthos a darkling look, but nodded, offering Athos an apologetic smile.

Athos didn't return it, too busy wondering what was happening. It wasn't quite  _good cop, bad cop_ , but rather an aggressive sort of affection, allowing him his choices with a few compromises thrown in.

It was,  _fine,_ sit over there, live where you want, but don't think we're just letting you go.

It was Athos not shifting again, it was Athos allowing them their tactile touches because he needed them, too, it was knowing that he needed them so much it hurt, it was…

"We need you, Athos," Aramis said, as if reading Athos' thoughts with his shockingly attractive nervous smile. "We can't function without you."

Athos frowned, unsure at hearing his own damning words used about him, unsure as to their meaning when his own were so twisted up along with his heart. Something about his expression made Porthos squeeze Aramis' hip, and Aramis slumped the slightest amount, his voice a little duller, now. "Porthos didn't go to class because you weren't there."

Porthos jerked, scowl firmly in place. "You fuckin' tattle!"

Unbidden, a smile curved Athos' mouth, and just like that, things seemed to return to normal. Where normality was Athos' pulse jumping at every touch, Porthos occasionally growling at Aramis when his words delved too close for comfort, and Aramis slowly slipping off of Porthos' lap to lay, sprawled, over the two of them.

Where, when the only light was from the streetlights outside, Porthos heaved a sigh, getting to his feet without any prompting from Athos, and said, "Right, time we made a move."

Where, when Aramis made a disappointed noise before receiving another growl from Porthos, Athos' fingers rested on Aramis' calf still in his lap and everyone froze.

Where Athos' breath caught for a second before it whooshed out on a murmured, "Stay."

Porthos hesitated, frowning at Aramis' pitiful attempts at hiding his hopeful look. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"We can kip on the sofa, s'no big deal—"

"—There are two guest rooms," Athos interrupted, probably a little too quickly considering the surprised look they shared.

There was a second of an unspoken question before Porthos nodded, chewing at his lip. "Okay."

Normality was where Athos relaxed, and then he tensed, because he had done it again, fallen for them again; but it was also taking strength from Ninon's words, from her palm on his heart.

Abnormality was tickling Aramis' foot until he squeaked and abnormality was Athos trying to open a bottle with his teeth like Porthos did as they both stared at him before cackling at his bitter complaints.

Abnormality was enjoying himself, was leaving his hand on Aramis' leg, was resting his head on Porthos' arm thrown over the back of the sofa.

Abnormality was Athos' smile, the feeling of slack strings.

And soon, that was normal, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through my own writing, I've made myself feel like a guilty puppet-master, but at least the boys are making some headway! (At last, I hear you cry.)


	13. Domus Dulcis Domus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home sweet home.
> 
> A plethora of references both obvious and subtle in this update, points and huggles for finding them! Not to mention how, when I was conjugating this title, I spent the entirety of it being a Roman soldier.

> I've got to have my love in the end,  
>  Or the rest of my day is positively mayhem.  
>  I'm a regular monster!  
>  How do you like your eggs in the morning?  
>  I like mine with a kiss.  
>  Up or down?  
>  I'll never frown, eggs can be almost bliss,  
>  Just as long as I get my kiss.
> 
> \- Dean Martin,  _'How D'ya Like Your Eggs in the Morning?'_

"We need milk," Aramis called as Athos headed downstairs past the middle floor. Athos paused with a roll of his eyes, nudging the door open onto Aramis lying upside down on his bed, head hanging off the edge as he read a book.

"Then buy some." Athos' smile was a stupidly affectionate thing as he tried to twist to see what Aramis was reading.

Aramis didn't even glance at his page to say, " _Comment te comparer aux matins de l'Éte?_ "

Athos almost hesitated, thrown off course by the combined force of his favourite things – namely, Aramis, Shakespeare, and French.

" _Ta grâce est plus amiable et ton humeur plus douce._ " Athos broke off to scowl, barely noticing Aramis' smoothly arched spine suddenly tensing. "The translation doesn't do the eighteenth sonnet any justice; it rhymes  _douce_ with  _pousse_ , but the pushing of winter has the most abstract connotation with summer's swift end."

"I'll remember that for my seminar," Aramis replied after a few moments of simply listening to Athos mutter lines.

Athos raised an amused, expectant eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, in that case, feel free to fetch some milk so that I don't accidentally turn you in for plagiarism."

Aramis snorted, returning to his book affrontedly – but his smile put a lie to it. "As if you would, now go away, or I'll see how it easy it is to push at winter."

Athos moved off with a quiet laugh, but paused when Aramis lifted suddenly, frown scanning Athos from head to toe. "Where are you going?"

Athos looked down at himself, too, curious as to what it was about today's outfit that marked it as different to usual. He was still in black jeans and white shirt, but he had added a black waistcoat for the afternoon, complete with a lime green pocket square – perhaps that was the cause for Aramis' intense perusal. "It's Thursday, Ninon's."

Aramis fell back abruptly, his head swinging to hit the bed. "Oh, of course. Have fun."

Athos winced at the smack Aramis' head had made, and he stepped forward, concern overriding the automatic thump of his pulse as he ran a careful hand through Aramis' soft curls. "No damage." Athos lifted Aramis' head, loath to let go just yet. "Move back onto the bed."

Aramis searched his face for a moment and then did as bid, his fingers reaching for Athos' wrist as he pulled away. "Kiss it better?"

It was a familiar request, one that never failed to make Athos smile – nor his blood to heat, but when Athos expected Aramis to turn, Aramis simply offered his cheek.

Athos lowered, wary of keeping the fingers still in Aramis' hair relaxed, and then his lips were brushing the smooth, sculpted stubble of Aramis' jaw, and when Athos almost lingered in the soft scent of cinnamon and jerked back, Aramis caught his bicep and rubbed their noses together.

The gentle pattering of raindrops on the withering wood of his heart, and Athos smiled.

"You're in a silly mood," Athos commented, using Aramis' own description for when he was like this, affectionate and, well, silly.

Aramis' smile was a slow, wonderful thing. "I'm reading Shakespeare,  _mon cher_ ," Aramis replied, as if it were explanation enough, the endearment ever more lyrical from his poetry reading.

Only Aramis could become  _silly_ from Shakespeare; some few souls fancied the romantic side of the great bard, but the rest, like Athos, were a rather more practical lot.

Still, Athos was feeling rather silly himself after that, and he couldn't help himself from quoting,

" _Comment ai-je le front de chanter ta valeur, puisque tu es, Ami, le meilleur de moi-même?_ "

Athos left, and smirked to himself when he heard Aramis' fingers pushing frantically through his pages, faintly hearing a desperate, " _Comment ai-je— quoi?_ Athos,  _quoi?!_ "

It wouldn't help Aramis that Athos had used the rhyming French translation rather than the direct one – at least with the latter he might recognise sonnet thirty-nine from its fellows.

Athos passed Porthos in the foyer, laughter bubbling from Athos' throat when Porthos deliberately walked in his way and snagged him for a hug. "Say hey to Ninon for me – oh, an' we need milk."

"Get out of my way, peasant," Athos murmured, his teeth flashing when Porthos doubled-back so that he could grab a woolly hat and shove it over Athos' head.

"Don't want you catchin' a cold gettin' the milk for this peasant."

Athos' laughter didn't stop as Porthos' held the brim down, and Athos instead chose to grab for Porthos' forearm, twisting it until Porthos was forced into letting go. As Athos removed the offending article, he noticed something distinctly surprised in Porthos' dark eyes, and then it was gone as Athos jammed the hat over it. "Good day, peasant."

Porthos swiped blindly at him, his chuckle perhaps a little huskier than usual, but Athos soon felt Porthos watching him as he hailed a cab, and Athos mirrored the simple salute Porthos gave from the doorway.

Athos' grin faded with his shuddering sigh.

 _Too much,_ his shattered subconscious whispered,  _too much._

Athos pressed an absent-minded finger to his lips, his skin tingling where it had caught at Aramis' beard. The slightest gleam that normally graced Aramis' facial hair was now being smoothed into Athos' own, the pleasant aroma of moustache oil seemingly scented with Aramis' own cinnamon.

Athos slumped in his seat, forcing himself to let the painful delight of it wash through him rather than block it out. There were a few seconds where Athos almost ordered the cabbie to turn around, but they passed, as they always did, even if the piercing longing simply subsided to a persistent ache.

Somehow, it strengthened him, allowing it to pass through, as if he managed to keep a few fragments of that whirling joy – holding them close as he could not physically do with Aramis and Porthos.

Although, sometimes, he could get away with it, like his hand in Aramis' curls this morning, Porthos pressed against his chest, rarely an evening went by where they weren't together on the sofa for at least a few minutes.

It was…

Bliss.

It had been since that first morning, the one after he had asked them to stay, the one after he had decided to take what he could, even if it kicked him harder for it later.

It was worth it to be able to wake up and see their sleepy smiles around his table – and Athos was calling it his, because of the three of them, it  _was_  his, and he quite liked that thought – and for it to be perfectly normal for Aramis to slip into Athos or Porthos' lap with a bowl of sickeningly sugary cereal and tell them about his latest dream, or Porthos to hand feed them both bits of toast whilst they discussed poetry, jumping to and from French as needed.

It was just their way, and now, in the privacy of their own home –  _home_ – there was no one to draw attention to it if it seemed strange.

Which it wasn't, it was the opposite of strange, it was normal.

The first morning hadn't been, the three of them sleeping in unfamiliar beds in an unfamiliar house. Knowing the other two were near was the only thing that kept Athos content – and it was a struggle not to go to them as he tossed and turned in what was really an overlarge bed.

Instead, Athos had forged on, intent on his little tiny bit of control, and was up at first light after a restless night, surprised to see the study room door open and the sofa bed in a mess.

Athos had crept warily into the kitchen, only entertaining the sickening thought that they had  _left_ when the downstairs proved empty, too. That sense of being adrift immediately threatened to sweep him under.

Except that Athos had whirled on his heel when the doorbell went, stalking to the foyer only to see a yawning Porthos through the peephole.

"What—"

"—Forgot I didn't 'ave a key," Porthos mumbled, pushing past Athos with two armfuls of shopping bags, almost tripping in surprise when Athos immediately turned to the sideboard.

"Here, have one."

Porthos' gaze took its time travelling from the key to Athos' face, pausing somewhere in between Athos' shoulder and his jaw, as if, perhaps, the marks Athos had dreamed about had somehow transferred to reality, and they blazed like little torches, proclaiming his betrayal.

Porthos' fingers grazed Athos' as he took that tiny scrap of metal, and perhaps it was only Athos that read such meaning into a simple key, but Porthos seemed to hold it just as reverently.

"I bought breakfast," Porthos had said by way gratitude, and Athos had nodded by way of acknowledgement.

They made scrambled eggs, together, Porthos juggling the fragile things with expert ease, until he had caught sight of Athos' enraptured face, and his rhythm faltered.

Athos caught one, Porthos the other two, but the fourth was lost to the cream and gold marble tile. Athos had felt as if the scene had been shattered like that shell, but then Porthos had stuck his hand in the mess and wiped it on Athos' hair, causing a brief but intense struggle over the fate of the rest of the eggs.

Breakfast, that first morning, had been meagre, only three eggs had survived the war, and those were served to a sleeping Aramis whose smile felt like sunbeams through Athos' ever-present clouds, but they dissipated utterly when Aramis, over his forkful of eggs, squinted at them. "Who started it?"

Athos had simply raised a brow and it was Porthos who pointed first, which damned him, and a smug Athos was the one fed from Aramis' fork, both snickering as Porthos glowered at them.

Breakfast, that first morning, had been wonderful.

It was lunch that had been strange; after being reminded halfway out of the door that he still had yolk on his face – a fact which had Porthos reworking the same joke all morning – Athos had answered a summons.

Ninon's smile had been distinctly feline when Athos collapsed into that same overstuffed chair, a plate of sandwiches before them, his hair still damp.

"So, someone had a good evening?"

Something about Athos' silly smile had made Ninon steeple her fingers and laugh delightedly. "It went better than expected."

She had leaned forward, gaze expectant, hand already reaching for a scone. "Tell me everything."

And Athos had, from the awkwardness at the door to the way he had fallen asleep with Aramis on his shoulder as Porthos chuckled at some football game on the television – skipping over the pure light that seemed to fracture throughout his body.

Ninon had hesitated, her smile dropping slightly. "And this morning?"

"We made scrambled eggs."

Ninon had frowned. "By scrambled eggs, you mean you had some chicken eggs, and you scrambled them in a pan?"

Athos had blinked. "How else do you scramble eggs?"

Ninon had stared at him for a moment, and then she signalled for a waiter. "Hello, yes, can I have a gin and tonic, please? No, nothing for him, he's just had some scrambled eggs."

"Midday drinking, a nasty habit – I should know."

"You aren't allowed to speak," Ninon had said, holding up one graceful finger in his direction.

Athos had bristled, remembering that Ninon's contrary nature was the reason they had occasionally fallen out. "I fail to see what I've done wrong."

"It's not a failure on your behalf, Athos," Ninon had said after a restorative draught of both tea and tonic. "I simply wonder when you will get your  _cerebrum_ out of your  _c ūlus_."

It had been a valiant effort to insult him whilst in a room full of people, but, nonetheless, it had been a room full of people who thought that it was appropriate to spend no less than one hundred pounds on some afternoon tea.

Besides,  _cerebrum_  wasn't exactly difficult, the film about mutants that Athos had been forced to watch last year had taken care of that.

After a gin and tonic, or two, Ninon had asked him a single question, her forehead resting slightly in her palm. "Are they staying?"

Athos had paused, evaluating the feeling that had been growing since they had arrived. "I hope so."

It was a feeling of  _hope._

That had earned him Ninon's smile, and she promptly moved on and refused to talk about it again.

A useful trait when he needed a secret kept, not useful when he was picking up on Aramis' cat-like curiosity. Still, it had been a month; maybe today would be the day she would tell him – why not, after all? It was turning out wonderful, so far.

Athos was the first to reach the overstuffed chairs, this time, which allowed him some time to relax, to once again idly rest his fingers against his still tingling lips.

He drew his phone out automatically, opening his emails when he realised the date. It was always at this time of the month he penned a letter to the newspaper's advice column, still refusing to give up on discovering their identity.

Ninon had seen him doing it, last month, her surprise palpable as she read a line over his shoulder. "That's very candid, for you."

"I don't sign my name," he had replied by way of explanation, shooing her away when she tried to read more. Athos was confident in his ability to remain undetected, Treville would never choose someone who might know anyone on the staff – Aramis was the worst gossip, after all.

Besides, whoever they were, they had become what another person might term a  _friend_.

Even if their advice was always,  _just tell them._

As if.

Athos' phone buzzed halfway through his email, Aramis drop-calling him to get his attention, and his self-set Scouting for Girls song ringing through the posh nuncheon room,  _there's nothing like a little bit of class, wrapped up in a perfect arse._

Athos declined the call, growling deprecations about everyone tampering with his phone, but it faded when he realised that Aramis had only just found the sonnet Athos had quoted before leaving.

[the front of your value. really?!]

Athos smiled, waiting for a minute as he predicted Aramis' next move, the flustered opening of the Internet and a quick search for the original sonnet. Athos could picture Aramis' quiet  _oh_  and his small smile, the slight flush on his cheeks, the heated shadow of his eyes—

Athos' phone rang out again, Aramis' text tone this time, a shorter lyric from the same song,  _the butter, oh the butter, it had gone._ [O absence! what a torment… And that thou teachest how to make one twain, by praising him here who doth hence remain.]

Athos' laugh was surprised, wondering whether Aramis had ever read into the sonnet's meaning of loving someone so entirely that it was as if they had taken up residence there. Neither of them had mentioned the lines regarding love, but Aramis had accused him of separating them.

A frown overcame Athos' brow as he started overthinking it, whether Aramis had meant Athos' departure a month ago or the one half an hour ago.

[by that I mean I hope you tell everyone you see that I'm amazing xxxxx]

Athos sighed in relief, smiling as he replied, [Which, in turn, means that I'm calling myself amazing.]

[of course you are. I'm the better half after all. Porthos can be the slightly less better half xxxxx] On the tail of that text, another appeared. [don't tell him I said that x] And another. [actually tell him. HE drank all the milk! xx]

Athos' brows had raised and he fully intended to put his phone away lest the easily offended patrons glared any harder, except that then Porthos' text tone was added to the mix. [if aramis is tellin u I drank the milk he is such a liar]

Aramis' came swiftly after and Athos resolved to just put it on silent and watch it play out. [he's texting you right now isn't he? xxx]

[y would I need milk? My bones are fine thx]

[Did he make the bone joke? He literally just said it to me xx]

Athos' smile was wide and completely unrepentant as he dragged them into the same chat and typed, [Porthos, get some new material, and Aramis, I know it was you, I saw the bottle on your bedside table.]

Athos was expecting a smug text from Porthos and a denial from Aramis but there was a strange amount of silence, as if Athos had said something unexpected.

He was about to text again but then Ninon swept into the chair opposite his with a harried smile. "Please tell me you've already ordered."

Athos put his surprisingly quiet phone away and focused on Ninon, raising a questioning brow even as he murmured to a passing waiter, "A gin and tonic, too, please."

Ninon fluttered a hand. "Thank you. Yes, of course you have, sorry, it's been a long day."

"Anything I can do?"

"Simply seeing you is enough," Ninon replied with a slightly more relieved sigh, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "How was your morning?"

Athos settled in his high-backed chair, finding comfort – control, even – in this regular little chat, that neither hell nor high water could keep him from. "Good," he smiled, "nice."

Their tea arrived in the muted clinking of china and cakes. "Any egg related disasters?"

"No, Porthos isn't allowing us in the kitchen for some reason, so Aramis is practicing his latest recitation upstairs." Ninon made an interested noise. "Shakespeare, French." Ninon's noise was definitely more interested, and they shared a hidden smile over their teacups. "Indeed."

"Is he bothering you?"

Athos met perceptive blue eyes with his own, careful in his phrasing. "If you mean am I growing tired of being used as both dictionary and thesaurus, yes."

Ninon looked down briefly, and Athos wondered how well she knew him, whether she had seen past his biggest barrier. "You could tell him to stop."

"And break his heart? I'd rather the ambushes of French than his moping."

Her smile was a teasing tilt of one corner. "The great Athos, toppled by tears."

Athos struggled not to let his lip twitch. "Evidently you haven't seen him  _really_ trying."

Ninon hesitated, a flustered fluttering of eyelashes. "Aramis and I move in different social circles."

From anyone else, Athos would have taken that as a slight, but he knew for a fact that Ninon and Porthos sometimes had coffee together before a psychology lecture.

Athos had thought that Aramis had gotten over his strange and entirely unwarranted dislike of Ninon – but then again, Aramis still scowled whenever Flea was mentioned, so perhaps he was simply being Aramis.

Still, it couldn't stand.

Athos turned the question back on her, "Is he bothering you?"

Ninon's golden brows raised, her expression one of surprise, as if she was ever bothered by anything. "No, of course not."

"I can talk to him—"

"Athos," she interrupted with a sigh, "you'll only make it worse. Aramis and I are simply too similar."

"You're my best friends."

"And therein lies the problem." Ninon raised a hand when he would have said more. "It's fine, it's something we'll work out in time."

Athos snorted, and it was as fond as it was exasperated. "You don't know Aramis."

"No, but I know you, and in your haste to defend me, you'll end up confirming his fears."

Athos paused, uncertainty beginning to bubble in his stomach, he should have known that Ninon would realise that Aramis' behaviour wasn't normal for him. But how could Athos explain to them that he had long had the initials  _A_ and  _P_ carved into the wounded flesh of his heart.

Athos shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to push her into revealing something that might hurt them both, and so he was honest.

"Aramis thinks you and I are meant to be together." Ninon gave a high-pitched strangled noise, and Athos frowned over a laugh. "Yes, thank you, your opinion of our supposed relationship is well known."

Ninon gave a delicate shudder. "Please, I had enough of that when I was twelve."

Athos made an outraged sound. "It didn't start then."

Ninon scoffed haughtily at him, but she matched the humour twitching at his cheeks. "It started the minute you muttered something in French from behind your  _mere's_  legs, and I replied."

Stampeding horses couldn't have stopped Athos' smile, the image of her as a tiny, elfin little thing with mischievous blue eyes bright in his mind. "You're still too blonde."

Those blue eyes sparkled at him. "And you're still too grumpy."

They had been children, babies, but their lives were already being mapped out over their heads, and neither had any say in it, until now.

Athos sobered, remembering the reason everything had changed, a catalyst of choices that had forced Athos out of his comfort zone, and into hell.

Was it that time of year already?

As if the date wasn't etched into his skin, and to those who knew him.

"Why don't you ask about Thomas?"

Ninon faltered, all her mirth disappearing, and where once Athos had looked into youthful eyes that had asked him everything, now he looked into older ones, and they were soft with concern, with a grief unspoken. "You don't want me to."

"That's not stopped anyone else."

"No, but they're not me."

"Nobody is." Ninon's smile was sad, and Athos sighed, running his hand over his face. For a moment, his fingers touched his lips, and he remembered the way it felt to brush a kiss to Aramis' cheek.

Athos looked at the beautiful woman opposite him, and mourned for what never was. "It would have been so much easier."

She knew immediately what he was talking about, and their movements mirrored each other as they habitually twisted the golden ring on their little fingers. "It would have been a lie."

Athos tilted his head to the side. "Easier."

"But not better."

"No?" Athos grit his jaw to the side, irritated that she was right, irritated that the world was wrong.

The same steel that coated Ninon's backbone crept into her expression, and for a moment, he stared at a goddess wreathed in gold. "Don't do to me what Bonacieux did to Constance, Athos."

Athos winced, but she had reprimanded him gently, not with the full force he deserved for speaking as the ignorant son of a la Fère. "You would benefit."

For some reason, she didn't smack him, but she did raise an eyebrow. "I don't find your grumpiness, charming, and I don't know why anyone else does."

"You know that's not what I mean."

Ninon ignored his unimpressed look with a smooth roll of her shoulders. "I won't live a lie, Athos, even if it means I spend the rest of my life alone." She exhaled a strained laugh. "Besides, who knows?  _Tempora mutantur._ "

Athos made a truly disparaging noise. "Wishful thinking."

Ninon's smile was an exasperated but indulgent thing. "Happiness is more important,  _your_ happiness is more important. So go and be happy, Athos."

Something sweet and bubbly glowed within his heart, illuminating the letter  _N_ that had carved and scarred over all those years ago. Athos raised sombre eyes, his love for her an old and loyal thing. "I will fight to the death anyone that hurts that generous heart of yours."

Ninon rose from her chair, a graceful creature who brushed a kiss against his cheek, and it was just like any other. "I know,  _carissimus._ Now go home, I'm sure they miss you."

Athos allowed himself a frown, but then he left, feeling a bit more centred, as he always did after seeing Ninon, as if she straightened the tangle of his life.

As he travelled home –  _home,_ it still felt bizarre to think it – Athos smiled, carefully wrapped parcel in his lap, but it was forgotten when he stepped through the front door.

Porthos froze when he saw him, a plate of something in one hand and dressed in that same dark shirt from a month ago. Athos felt his breath catch at the dark, sombre beauty of him.

"You're 'ome early."

"Yes, Ninon…" Athos trailed off, not trusting his voice, because something was happening and he wasn't sure if he was reading it correctly.

Porthos nodded, distracted. "Okay, go on up." Athos tried to see what Porthos was holding, but it earned him a grin and a pat on the behind. "Upstairs, go."

Athos hid his flush in the shadows of the stairwell, but all the blood drained from his face when he stepped into the living room, a picnic blanket spread beneath his feet and Aramis shuffling from foot to foot.

Aramis held a hand out, and Athos took it without thinking, fixated on Aramis' nervous smile and the feel of warm fingers twining with his. "We thought Ninon might have beaten us to it."

Porthos placed the plate down, laden with finger-foods, sweeter and simpler versions of the things Athos only ate when he was in France. A heavy hand landed on Athos' shoulder, connecting the three of them, and Porthos' voice was soft with concern, "We didn't want you to think we'd forgotten what day it was."

All three letters glowed warmly on his heart, and Athos knew he was not worthy of his friends.

Athos shook his head numbly, trying to convey his gratitude, but his throat closed up at a familiar picture placed on one corner of the blanket, one of a boy he had last seen in the hospital.

"Thomas," was all Athos managed to get out, and then he closed his eyes against the crack in his voice. Aramis tugged him downwards until he was sat cross-legged between them, Aramis against one shoulder, Porthos on the other.

A wine glass was pushed into his hand, his favourite rioja already warmed by Aramis' hold. One of Porthos' hands was almost touching Athos' neck, and the other raised the third of their wine glasses.

"To Thomas."

Athos inhaled a shaky breath, his scarred heart trembling. " _Mon frere._ "

There was a tentative silence, but it was comfortable, too, Athos simply trying to breathe, breathe and not bury his face in Porthos' neck and drag Aramis onto his lap.

Aramis' chin nudged at his shoulder. "What's that?"

Athos blinked, slowly realising he was still holding the parcel that Ninon had handed him as he left. "A gift," he said quietly, and passed it to Aramis to unwrap, his slender fingers taking great delight in tearing at the wrapping.

Porthos' laugh was a rumble through Athos' back when the doormat was revealed, the black ink on its front spelling out  _domus dulcis domus._

It was the final confirmation that things might just be looking up, and he knew he had Ninon to thank for that.

Athos sagged, his weight resting fully against Porthos' chest, and Aramis wriggled closer when Athos said quietly, "Thank you."

Porthos refilled his glass, Aramis fed him the tiny bits of pastry that Porthos had spent all day working on, and Athos hid his smile and tried not to nip at their fingers, their laughing sticky and content.

 _Happiness_ , it twirled through him like rainbows, bringing colour to his monotone soul.

This was worth living a lie for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that, a whole two chapters ending somewhat happily? Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?  
> My [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/) is always open if, like Ninon, you need to rant about lovesick fools.


	14. Timendi Causa est Nescire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignorance is the cause of fear.
> 
> Hark, an update! Managed to wrangle this chapter into place after a few difficult weeks, apologies for my absence and, well, you'll see.

> The tables are empty, the dance floor's deserted.  
>  You play the same love song - it's the 10th time you've heard it.  
>  That's the beginning, just one of the clues.  
>  You've had your first lesson in learnin' the blues.
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra,  _'Learnin' the Blues'_

 It was the first time that Athos had been summoned to Treville's office since the newspaper debacle, and despite the glowing happiness that had been suffusing him for the two weeks they had been in the house, Athos was starting to feel a little sick.

Thankfully, Porthos was a reassuring presence at one side as they strode to The Palace. "D'you want us to come in with you?"

Athos shook his head, mind only half on the conversation, the other half was trying to figure out what the fuck he had done to deserve a meeting.

The email had been in his inbox when he had woken up this morning, his neck one pounding ache because he had fallen asleep on the sofa, his breath a fluttering thing when he realised his cheek was resting against Porthos' bicep, and Aramis had somehow managed to curl up on Athos' chest.

In pain, exhausted, and yet his smile had been undeniable.

Until the email.

"We've not  _done_ anything, I don't understand," Aramis grumbled, hair still ruffled from where Athos had gently stroked his head whilst they slept unawares.

A soft, gentle,  _warm_ wake up, and he had so few of those these days.

Again, until he checked his phone, and then Athos had jerked up from the sofa and sent limbs flailing everywhere, his name yelped and growled.

"We've been more on time with the paper this month than we've ever been," Athos remarked, flipping through his mental calendar with frantic fingers.

"Fencin' society's doin' well, we've even 'ad more recruits since we started sparrin' for fun on a Saturday."

Athos nodded, still deep in thought. Those weekend sparring sessions were bittersweet; sweet in that any chance Athos had to show off his fencing skills was to be jumped at, and their easy laughter was like nectar to Athos' parched soul.

It had been bitter because of the locker room banter afterwards, where Athos spent a remarkable amount of time biting the insides of his cheeks and keeping his gaze anywhere that wasn't hip-height.

He had developed a rather avid fascination for arms, lately, and the smooth curve of muscle between neck and shoulder that seemed designed to be bitten.

Athos almost walked off of the path, steadied at the last second by one of those very arms he had been thinking of.

" _I've_ been remarkably well-behaved," Aramis announced, but where he had expected praise, all he received were two wry smiles.

"You can't expect commendation for  _not_ being bad."

"Yeah, who d'you think you are, Yondu?"

Aramis tried to be haughty, but his mouth curved at the edges when Athos rolled his eyes at the copious references he had been forced to learn. "Blue is  _so_ my colour. Anyway, my point is, Treville can have nothing to tug us on, so maybe it's a good thing."

Athos raised a dubious eyebrow. "Your optimism never fails to amaze me."

"And your pessimism calls to my happy heart to lighten yours." Aramis' smile was such a genuine, affectionate thing, that Athos' lips parted slightly in surprise.

It was poetic, as if Aramis had been reading Shakespeare again, and Athos was the inspiration – except that the pair of them had long been Athos' muse, they just didn't know it.

Athos didn't write sonnets to somebody's eyebrows, like Aramis did, or do whatever Porthos was doing with all that charcoal he thought he was being sneaky about, but Athos knew about heartbreak, about temptation, about wanting things that could never be had.

It was why he was acing his course – he was depressingly good at tragic.

"What does that make me then?"

Aramis turned that staggering smile onto Porthos. "A realist,  _mon cher._ "

"With a healthy dose of optimism," Athos added, ever mindful of the way that Porthos could take anything on the chin – including a flurry of fists – and still smile at the end of it.

Porthos shook his head. "S'not optimism, Athos, things just look up, sometimes." Another genuine, affectionate statement, and Athos pretended not to see the little smile they passed each other behind his back.

Maybe they were right.

Things had been… he hesitated to say  _good_ , but peaceful. Routine had returned to his life, and even if it was a routine of stupid films whilst curled up on the couch, or being the one who kept them to their schedules – he had mastered the subtle cough and tapping foot when there were times to be kept.

It was their version of peaceful – or, at least, the only peace that could be known when living with two vibrant souls.

Athos had learned to accept their friendship, accept the colour that they brought to his life without feeling guilty about it, perhaps he should learn to accept their optimism, too.

Athos took a steadying breath. "In which case, I'll be fine, I'll meet you at the courts in an hour."

Aramis smiled, his pinkie finger touching Athos' for a moment. "Taking our advice, are you ill?"

Porthos chuckled, "Nah, things are lookin' up, see?"

Athos was aiming for unimpressed, but the words that came out seemed almost fond, "Soon you'll find me in the kitchen, making those tiny little cakes that you two seem to inhale."

Porthos made a disbelieving but somehow satisfied noise. "Now,  _that'll_ be the day, Athos makin' me jam tarts, bliss."

"I'll find an apron for you,  _mon cher,_ " Aramis teased, both of them far too good at finding the gleam in his eye that said he was enjoying himself when he was pretending to be indifferent.

"What,  _kiss me, I'm French?_ "

Aramis tutted at Porthos, correcting with a smile, " _Embrasse-moi, je suis français._ "

The sound of that word – and again in Aramis' lyrical French, no less – set off Athos' warning bells, told him it was too much, too soon. The little tinkling of joy dwindled to an ever-present fear of being discovered, and then he was himself again. A wooden façade, cracking from their attentions.

"Off with you."

Maybe it was because he was back on campus and so he noticed it more, his usual shields rising up and telling him to  _be careful_ , but he thought that Porthos' hand lingered overlong on his shoulder, and Athos could only blink when Aramis blew him a kiss.

It didn't seem so normal, outside of their home.

Porthos was right, it  _was_ strange of Athos to come round to a new way of thinking, but then he had been doing that a lot, lately.

It was only because he had felt so distanced from the world, so caught up in their own lives, that he had let his guard down and let them in. It had happened before, during term-time, where he felt some comfort at being so far away from his past, but now, in the house, he felt safe.

He should know by now that nothing ever was.

It was confirmed with every step up the stairs to Treville's office, until he was once-again nursing that tightness in his chest as every possible problem offered itself.

Athos had never understood the Aramis' carefree attitude, and never once had he taken relief in Porthos' favourite question,  _what's the worst that could happen?_

That's what alcohol-fuelled nightmares were for.

Athos knocked once, his knuckles rapping on the old wooden door before letting himself in, at once steadied and stirred by the scent of cigars and whiskey.

The unease increased.

"Athos," Treville said by way of introduction, and returned his attention to his papers almost immediately. One of Treville's hands was braced on a dark line winding through his desk, the letter-opener scar from the article issue, the one caused by Richelieu's taunts. "Sit."

Athos looked down at the chair, the faded green leather that matched the rest of the room as if he were in the House of Commons, and then he looked up again.

If Treville was the party leader announcing his policy at the lectern, Athos would lean into one leg and cross his arms, his face as carefully neutral as it always was. "Sir."

Treville didn't do petty; if he had something to say, he would say it, not idly dismiss someone as if they weren't important. Either Athos was in more trouble than he realised, or Treville was picking up tricks from Richelieu.

Treville met his gaze for a taut few seconds, and then he gave an almost imperceptible shrug, straightening until he could look Athos in the eye, one finger still resting on that scar. "How long did you think you could get away with not living on campus?"

It was said very casually, as if he was asking for an update on the newspaper, and Athos was so thrown by the unexpected issue that he simply blinked. Treville took his silence as tacit guilt and nodded, running a hand over his head with a sigh.

"It's a health and safety issue more than anything, Athos, you can't just disappear and,  _and,_ take two other students with you into the night."

Athos took a difficult breath, but there was more exasperation in Treville's tone than there was disappointment – and that was totally disregarding that very libellous statement at the end, even if it was meant as a joke.

A joke.

Athos started when Treville sat down, looking for all intents and purposes as if this was just a little blip on his horizon, and not at all deserving of the mild terror that had been creeping up Athos' spine for the last hour.

_Things are lookin' up._

Athos slowly sank into his own chair. "But aside from that, everything's okay?"

Treville glanced at him over a sheet of paper. "As well as it could be, given the situation – and don't think I didn't check the payment plan."

At this, Athos matched Treville's unimpressed look. "I wasn't going to stop paying, we still want the rooms. This is just a…"

"Holiday?" Treville supplied, something that might have been called a smile at his lips.

Athos leaned back into his chair with a sigh that could have been one of Treville's. "Yes, if you call Aramis going through the tequila like it's wine, a holiday."

Treville snorted, thankfully choosing not to bring up Aramis' famous tastes for alcohol – the stickier the better. "Not that you're drinking heavily of an evening?"

Athos glanced upwards to meet sadistically amused eyes, ones that told him he deserved the aggravation – because at least it was keeping them busy. "No, of course not."

"Of course not." Treville's smile was wry, a surprising enough sight to draw one of Athos' but they both faded when he continued, "Richelieu wanted me to write to your parents." Treville noticed the stiffening of Athos' posture and shook his head. "I didn't, I thought I'd wait for you to come to me, but you never did."

Athos' mouth clicked open, unsure of what to say to something that sounded an awful lot like an offer of help. He didn't receive those, he received problems and was expected to deal with them.

"I… wasn't aware that it would be an issue," he said haltingly.

"It's not, it's you, I assumed you had everything under control," Treville replied simply, stunning Athos into silence. "I would appreciate a warning, though, if only so I know where to send d'Artagnan after his first big night."

Athos' coughed a short laugh, warily eyeing what looked like that same trust he thought he had lost forever after the fracas with Bonacieux. "You'd saddle us with him, sir?"

Treville's frown was belied by his smile. "I was saddled with you lot enough in your first year; I thought you three alone would make me lose in the colleges' rankings of police call-outs."

Athos' amused exhale seemed to take all of his tension with it, and he was left bemused. "How does Richelieu seem to know everything?"

"Hm? Oh, we have to meet to compare data every now and again, it's a formality, really, an excuse to see who's doing better – and who brings the better whiskey." Treville didn't notice Athos stiffen, this time, instead the hard lines of Treville's face softened into something curious. "He was probably trying to get you into trouble now that I think about it – cheeky sod."

Now Athos was even more confused – shouldn't that sentiment have been said with less, well, sentiment?

"Sir," Athos began, uncertainty still a roiling in his stomach. "Am I to understand that you're not going to give me a bollocking?"

"What? No. Have I got my bollocking face on?" Athos raised one eyebrow at Treville's naturally serious resting face, and it earned him a soft scoff. "I don't know why you felt the need to leave campus, but I've heard your names less this month than I ever have, so I'm not complaining."

Athos tilted his head in acknowledgement. Things had been unnaturally quiet for them, lately; he just hoped it wasn't the calm before the storm.

Treville jerked his head at the door. "Go on, I'm sure they're prepared to come rushing to your defence."

He was hearing that a lot, but Athos was more surprised by the casual dismissal, at the anticlimactic end to what he had thought would have been catastrophic.

It must have shown on his face, the realisation that things had settled back into what they used to be, that – for the first time in Athos' life – there were no lasting effects from the fallout. Treville cleared his throat when Athos was halfway out of the door.

"We all do stupid things, Athos, and I can't call taking the fall for someone else stupid."

A reprieve and a reprimand in one. Athos met the far too perceptive gaze of the man he respected more than anyone else, and could only nod at the smile curving a censorious mouth.

Things were looking up.

 

* * *

 

Athos strode onto the fencing courts with what might have been called a grin on a lesser man. He felt light, as if he had lost some indeterminable weight from his shoulders. It was still there, lurking, but he felt as if it didn't matter as much, as if he could deal with it.

As if he would have  _help_ to deal with it should the time come, and in the interim he was walking on the moon, with less holding him down at every step.

It lessened further as he changed into his fencing gear and went through a few patterns, even going so far as to nod at a few recruits who had showed up early.

Peace flowed like spring-water through his veins, easing the wooden tension.

It encountered a dam in the shape of one little hellion, who stopped dead upon seeing him, eyes widening.

"Athos, you're early?"

Athos frowned, finishing a sweep of his épée that had an onlooker applauding quietly, which he summarily ignored – there was only so much good will in the world he could handle. "I'm always early."

D'Artagnan shook his head very slightly, as if he was afraid to move too much. "No, you're on time, to the second."

"Are you calling issue with my time-keeping, d'Artagnan?" Athos asked archly, but when the boy didn't smile, he cleared his throat in confusion.

D'Artagnan seemed torn, somewhere between fear and fury, his fists clenching in on themselves, his eyes flicking the way he came.

It was nerves.

Perhaps it was because Treville had just stood by him, but Athos stepped forward, his tone softening, concerned. "What is it?"

As if d'Artagnan could sense the strange brand of loyalty, he glanced up in surprise before looking away again, and his reply was quiet, but tight. "I just saw Aramis."

Athos blinked for a moment, and then he realised it was embarrassment that had made d'Artagnan so uncomfortable, undoubtedly embarrassment at seeing Aramis with one his crushes, and Athos' laugh was strained.

All this time he had thought their peace was enough for the three of them, but apparently not enough for Aramis.

Then again, when had rules ever applied to Aramis?

Athos forced himself to sigh, told himself that he knew this would happen, and that really he wasn't surprised, he would get past this as he had so many times before.

The burn in his gut hurt a lot more this time, though.

Colour seemed to seep away at the edges of his vision, as if his monochrome was returning and their glittering joy leaving him.

Foolish, romantic imagery, and Athos cast it aside as he had so often before.

"Training waits for no man, even Aramis. Who is it?"

D'Artagnan wouldn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the ground, but with an absence of the blush Athos would have expected when talking about Aramis' latest light-o'-love. Instead, his jaw was clenched, his fingers tight around his épée, as if he was angry.

"Spit it out, d'Artagnan. Who is it?" Athos asked tiredly, but nothing changed.

Athos threw his hands up and turned on one heel, heading for the door to forcibly drag Aramis' lips away from whoever it was if he had to.

A grip around his wrist stopped him short, shocking him into halting, and he followed the arm upwards to see d'Artagnan's face so very closed for the first time since he had known him.

"Don't."

And just like that, everything returned to normal, terrible, awful normality. Gravity resumed, and strengthened, as if he walked on Jupiter and risked being crushed under his own weight.

A muscle in Athos' eyelid twitched, the only indication of the sickening hole that had opened in his stomach, because d'Artagnan was as used to Aramis' pursuits as Athos was, and only this one had made him hold Athos back.

Only that one, only ever that one.

Aramis was with someone that they knew, and Athos  _knew,_  he knew it like the quickening of his breath and the burn behind his eyes, he knew it as if a book had suddenly been thrust in front of him, its pages worn and thumbed-through, but now its contents were different, the angles were different.

D'Artagnan was looking at him differently, and so Athos did the same, and he knew, knew himself for a fool far greater than he had ever known.

_Dear God in Heaven, no._

D'Artagnan's hand slowly left his, and Athos knew he had to speak, had to ask, had to know.

Even though he already did.

"You're sure?"

"It was in the open, Athos," d'Artagnan murmured, still not looking at him, "they were wearing their fencing jackets."

The breath that left Athos' chest was short, and sharp, and pained, and it stuttered slightly in the middle, as if his heart had hesitated.

It tried to harden as it had so many times before, tried to steel itself against the inevitable agony, but all he heard was their names, their pet names, and all he could think was how  _ignorant_ he had been.

Ignorant of the two people that held his heart, ignorant of the fact that they held each others.

"D'Artagnan." It came out quiet, but there was a distinct note of anxiety in there that made the boy flinch.

If d'Artagnan heard it, if d'Artagnan  _saw_ it, then they would, too, and Athos couldn't allow that, couldn't bear to hear their happiness and see the afterglow that always glittered so prettily in Aramis' smile.

There was pity,  _pity,_ in d'Artagnan's eyes, and Athos' had to stop himself from squeezing the boy's chin when he reached for it, forcing that bright gaze to meet his turbulent one, the jawbone sharp under his fingers where d'Artagnan was still too skinny from grieving. "Do  _not_ tell them you saw me."

Athos held the stare, enforcing the command, and then let go abruptly, deaf to the soft call of his name that followed.

It sounded like Athos felt, confused and helpless.

Except that this was just the tip of the iceberg, because it ran so much deeper, the roots of this didn't just twine his veins and pierce his heart, it  _was_ his heart, because they were.

A rambling mess of withered roots that had finally started strengthening, and now it was as if someone had yanked them out of their terracotta pot and left him dangling, gasping for breath, bereft of the steadying soil and the warm sunlight.

There was a rushing in his ears, a precursor he hadn't felt in weeks, but he knew what was coming, and he knew he had to get somewhere safe.

Except that safe had changed, and home wasn't safe anymore.

It wasn't their home anymore.

Athos fixated on the bright outdoors mere metres away, but it was the same door d'Artagnan had used, the one that had led him past the only two fencing jackets not already on the courts and Athos might  _see._

See the two whose letters were carved onto the tangled mess of his heart, see them together, doing the things he had only thought about when the darkness was absolute, and then, in the garish light of the morning, he could pretend that it meant nothing.

The doorway was out, so he sidestepped, heading for the viewing platform, the stairs roped off during training so that people felt comfortable not being watched.

It was secluded, and dark, and quiet, and perfect for keeping him together when his world wanted to topple like a fragile tree in the wind.

The voices below echoed up here, faint reverberations that felt like an oncoming stampede, and Athos wondered whether he was standing in the ravine and waiting to be trampled.

 _Self-inflicted_ , as if the emotion he had allowed was now turning sour and poisoning him, draining him of colour and leaving only desolation in its wake.

It seemed like so long ago that he had stood in Porthos' room and imagined a day that they would leave him, and it seemed that he had been right – but so much sooner than he had thought.

A part of him considered this as just another of Aramis' crushes, a fleeting thing that burned bright before flickering out, but that hurt just as bad in a way, for the thought of one of their hearts being broken was like a knife driven into his own.

For all he said he knew nothing of love, he knew them, he knew Porthos was not someone you could simply let go, and he knew Aramis was not someone you ever stopped loving.

It was inevitable, he supposed, that the two best people in his life would end up together, that they would be enough for each other, satisfy the vibrancy that burned in them both – Aramis' for many, and Porthos' for one.

Porthos had said that he had only realised what he wanted in life when he had started university, and Athos understood that so keenly that he wanted to scream.

He should be happy for them.

It's only when his fingernails prick the skin on his scalp that he knows that he isn't.

The pain blooms and it isn't enough, he's past that now, he knows it's foolish and harmful, and he's  _grown_ , he's learned to accept so much more than he used to.

His hand falls into his lap, the sting fades, and Athos does not know what to do.

He isn't the leaf on the breeze, but the breeze itself, tearing into a frenzy, and he knows that his calm can only ever be found in one place, his safety absolute with only one person now.

Faintly, he hears his name from below, the quavering uncertainty in d'Artagnan's tone and knows he is doomed. Athos ran.

The fire exit door shrieked when he opened it, its pitch perfectly attuned to the noise that tore itself from Athos' throat when he realised that they'll know where he is and what he knows.

If he stumbled, he blamed the earth, and if his eyes watered, he blamed the sun, for those two were the beginning and the end of his problems.

Corrugated iron rang under his footsteps as he threw himself down the stairs, his épée banging against the railing until he drew it in frustration.

Sword in one hand and the other shading his eyes, anyone in his way moved swiftly out of it. Treville would rip him to pieces for walking around with his weapon drawn, but if it meant he could just get  _away,_ he didn't care.

If he could run away from their well-deserved, overwhelming, absolutely heart-breaking happiness, he didn't care.

He didn't care.

The pain told him otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did imply that there was a fall coming, didn't I? You can't say I didn't warn you!  
> As always, pop by my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com) if it pleases.


	15. Veritas Vos Liberabit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth will set you free.
> 
> I'm not dead, but you might wish it on me once you've read this.  
>  _If this is love, I don't want it. Take it away, please! Why does it hurt so much?_

> Don't worry 'bout me,  
>  I'll get along.  
>  Forget about me,  
>  be happy, my love.
> 
> Let's say that our little show is over,  
>  and so the story ends.  
>  Why not call it a day the sensible way,  
>  and still be friends.
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra,  _'Don't Worry 'bout Me'_

Athos' head is a minefield, with bracken clawing at his ankles and the possibility of a metal plate beneath every footfall. His hands shake in the rain-slick mud, scrabbling for purchase, and the only safe path through it all is a pattern, patterns to keep his thoughts under control.

He recites things he knows, things that keep his brain busy; the Greek alphabet, the Zodiac's stars, Latin conjugation tables, Shakespeare's works, the ones Aramis liked—

Athos slammed his fist down on his leg to force that train of thought to derail, leaving a path of destruction through his subconscious, devastation littered with the hallmarks of supposed affection.

His mind is a fickle, foolish thing. Akin to a maze, every thought has a thread, and every thread irrefutably brings him back, back to them, as if they had ingrained himself in the very air he breathed.

As if every breath was for naught if not for them.

Athos counts, he counts cars through the window of his cab, he counts streets, he counts doors that slowly morph from squat and small to wide and large, he counts topiaries and brass knockers, stone animals that herald atop walls.

Nearly there.

Only one thread remains, a lifeline, a golden rope, one that has long twined around his heart. As the wet earth clings to his feet and threatens to drag him down, Athos heads for the safest place he has ever known.

If only he weren't so predictable.

There is no true escape in today's world, and his eyes are drawn to his buzzing phone before he can stop them, his breath a stuttering thing as the message obligingly glows across his screen.

[Please mon cher, don't go to her.]

The laugh that's torn from Athos' throat is sharp and painful, the sound of ice cracking over a deep pond, the sound of a frozen fate sealed with one misplaced step, lines arching outward like a spider's web with him at the centre, caught and condemned.

Where else did they expect him to go?

He had been run out of the fencing courts, chased off of campus; he couldn't even go to the house for fear that they might be there…

That they might have  _been_ there, all this time, and he had never known.

The humiliation was toxic, like tar spreading throughout his mental minefield, sticky and cloying. The insults came in his own voice,  _blind, ignorant, fool,_ and no matter how hard he bit his tongue did it stop the onslaught of questions. How many times had he seen that Porthos' bed hadn't been slept in, how often had he been mere minutes away from seeing something?

For how long had he been the spare wheel and never even known it?

If Athos' fingers had touched metal at that moment, felt that miniscule click that was more damning than a crack in the ice, he might have been tempted to let it go and embrace oblivion.

"Fourteen fifty, mate."

Blinking away the text that had burned onto his retinas, Athos blindly thrust the cash into the driver's hands and stumbled into the piercing brightness of an overcast afternoon.

As he climbs the steps, his phone goes again, he's  _querido,_ this time.

Athos almost fumbles his footing, but he falls down heavily regardless, his palm scraping the stone and he twists until his back thuds against the front door.

Overhead, the skies are crowded with clouds, heavy, grey things that seem to weigh on his shoulders, a dirty-white lightness that brought with it a brisk breeze.

For once, he wants it to rain.

He had never felt more lost.

The door gave way behind him but he didn't fall, simply turning to aim a glassy-eyed, disbelieving look upwards at the person who seemed to be his true north.

Or at least the golden compass that would show him what was, because his moral one was off, magnetised to a place he shouldn't want to go, drawing him to those mines beneath the surface.

Ninon's sigh was a familiar one, but it still managed to draw a damp cough from Athos' chest as she sat down beside him and cupped his face in her hands, the damning knowledge there in her sympathetic blue eyes. "You should have seen this coming."

"What," Athos replied, bitterness twining with his shock, "that they would abandon me?"

"No," Ninon said softly, her smile a fondly exasperated thing, her manicured nails scratching at his beard as if she wanted to shake him, "that you would fall in love with them."

Athos jerked, his desperate denial meeting only the perfect arch of her eyebrow. "It's not like that."

Ninon's fingers gripped a little tighter when he might have pulled away from the unbearable truth in her terrifyingly gentle words. "Do not lie to me, Comte."

Athos should have known, but not that, not what she said, he should have known that he could never get anything past her, not after she had picked him up and put him back together again.

Not when Ninon understood better than anyone.

His hand landed atop hers, the rings on their little fingers clinking as if to declare their presence and the meaning inherent within them. "It can't happen, Ninon, you know that,  _you know why."_

" _Tempora mutantur_."

Athos shook his head, a thread of anger dispersing the fog, finally dislodging her fingers which only fell to the pained thump of his heart. "The times didn't, not over there, only I changed, and I won't drag them down with me if it gets out."

Ninon pushed her forehead against his, her laugh disbelieving. "Athos, how could it? You're a whole country away. Why deny yourself happiness in any way that you can take it? You, of all people,  _carissimus,_ deserve to be loved."

At that, Athos did recoil, and the guilt that he had been trying to ignore coursed up to the choke him like frigid water. "I betrayed them."

Ninon frowned, refusing to let him pull away too far. "For returning a love they have for you?"

Athos' exhale quavered at that word, some pitiful portion of optimism in it before being smothered by his rationale.

Athos was backed up against the doorframe, trapped by Ninon's careful hand and damning words, unsure whether it was in denial or a habit of not  _hoping_ that had him saying, "You don't know that."

"No? Then tell me why Aramis dislikes me so much."

Athos winced, remembering all too clearly the cruel words that had passed between he and Aramis the same day that Athos had predicted they would leave him. "Because he thinks you and I are meant to be together."

Ninon laughed, pushing his hair back tenderly. "Because you're meant for him," Ninon tilted her head, expression amused, "for them both. It's jealousy, Athos."

"It can't be, why would it be?"

"Don't fish for compliments, Comte, it doesn't become you," Ninon teased, and sighed at his lost look. "For two years you've hidden this,  _this_ ," her hand rested on his frantic heart, "all because you were worried for them. Selfless, loyal, dedicated, infuriatingly stubborn. You are loved, Athos, and you're the only one who can't see it."

It was so easy to deny it, as if it were a long-learned gesture that he had practiced often – and, he realised, he had. For nearly three years. "I would have seen that, of all things."

Ninon gave him a sad smile full of affectionate chiding. "And yet here you are."

Athos' compass began to spin out of control, as if gravity itself had shattered, and with it so had his every hope of guidance, and every step was a another crack in the ice, another buried mine.

Overcome, Athos let his head drop against Ninon's hand, sure of only one thing in this world, and that was her.

Until she spoke.

"I think this belongs to you."

Athos' eyes snapped open to see her looking over his shoulder, speaking the same words she had said the last time he had run here trying to escape them.

He never could, but this time, Ninon had to be wrong.

"I 'ope so."

Athos whipped around at the sound of that nervous voice, his eyes locked onto Porthos' uncomfortable stance, hand on the back of his neck, smile a tentative line as if he fully expected Athos to shout at him, to send him away in disgrace.

How could he when Porthos was a contrast in artistry? Strong, steady lines that seemed to flow beautifully to create an effortless whole, so at odds to the myriad cracks that laced Athos' psyche. When Athos looked at Porthos, he saw a unification, and in that tentative smile he saw an  _offer_ of unification.

 _It cannot be_ , Athos' thoughts told him, and he saw Porthos flinch when he turned his head away to find his golden imp, the one who had borne his difficulties so gracefully and always had an answer.

"I cannot," Athos whispered in Latin, "do not ask me to do this."

Ninon's smile was small as she replied in kind, "I am not the one asking, dear one. Know thyself, as they do."

"Come home, Athos," Porthos interrupted quietly, and Athos turned aggrieved eyes onto one half of his heart. "Please."

Athos didn't trust himself to speak, but he swayed over so slightly towards Porthos, and that was the catalyst.

True North it might not be, but it was something.

Ninon pulled him upwards, her hands soft on his arms as she nudged him down the stairs and whispered, " _Veritas vos liberabit_."

It would be a pale approximation of freedom, but at least with the truth would come answers.

And perhaps, then, he could finally let them go.

 

* * *

 

No car journey had ever been more uncomfortable.

It was almost a relief to return to the house, until Athos remembered that it was this house that had brought them together again.

Not the three of them, but he and they, and that line was gouged into the dirt between them, as plain to the eye as the crack in the wood from when Porthos had vaulted the bannister.

Cracks, like the ones in the ice, like the ones on his heart.

No matter where he went, they followed him, the memories, the emotions, the feelings that had him eyeing the departing cab as if it were his last chance of escape.

His spine snapped straight when Porthos' fingers brushed its base before tearing away, Porthos' soft apology almost as painful as the cry that burbled at the back of Athos' tongue.

Aramis opened the door before they could reach it, and Athos walked past without looking at him, knowing that he might falter if he did.

Knowing he might, anyway.

"Tell me he didn't," Aramis babbled, and when Porthos shook his head, Aramis' eyes closed on a sigh of relief. " _Gracias a Dios."_

At Athos' confusion, Porthos opened his mouth, and when Aramis made a worried noise, Porthos silenced him with a surprising amount of censure to his frown. "No more lies, Aramis." Porthos licked his lips awkwardly before admitting, "We were worried you'd go to Ninon for more than a hug."

Athos flinched in surprise, indignation lending him strength as he turned to Aramis. "I don't think you can cast aspersions in your position."

Aramis inhaled to defend himself, but then he sagged, his voice infinitely soft, "No, I know."

And there it was, the admittance, right there, the confirmation of everything Athos had feared in three quiet words and the lines between Porthos' eyes.

Athos felt it ripple through him, felt every possibility like a crack against his spine, until he almost bowed under the pressure. To think it had already hurt enough, to know it, was agony. The question came out low, hoarse, "How long?"

Porthos and Aramis both looked at each other guiltily, and a pained huff left Athos' throat as he saw the bonds of connection between them, the unspoken conversations that he had always thought he had known but had obviously read wrong.

Since the beginning.

The likelihood punched him in the stomach. "Don't say since first year, don't—"

"—Only once or twice," Aramis hastened. "When we were drunk."

"Very drunk," Porthos insisted, hand raised in placation as he leaned against the wall, "an' we felt really bad afterwards."

Athos' jaw clenched as he raised an eyebrow, expecting a lewd remark, but they both just stared forlornly at him. For once, it wasn't hard for Athos not to relent, and his resolve strengthened and grew teeth. "And then?"

Aramis looked away, the picture of regret if Athos could believe it. "It happened more often, we weren't always drunk."

"But we still felt bad," Porthos said in some warped form of reassurance.

Athos scoffed, sarcasm like sour syrup on his tongue. "Oh, did you now?"

"We didn't wanna lie to you, Athos!"

Athos' reply came out biting. "Then why did you?"

Aramis shifted, his hands restless as if they wanted to reach out to him, or to Porthos, who was still standing some distance away – a fact that Athos was silently grateful for. "Because of this, because we knew how you'd react. You'd think we were abandoning you."

 _That's because you are_ , he wanted to snap, but they were already leaving him, how far could he possibly push them before he hated himself even more?

And yet, how far could he push himself if he had to witness everything he had ever wanted and know he was forever left behind? It was hard enough living with them when he thought their friendship was paramount, but to do so now could very well be his undoing.

Porthos' voice intruded on his despairing dilemma. "We don't wanna do that, we don't want anythin' to change. It can still be the three of us."

Athos shuddered with the urge to vehemently shake his head, because Porthos was wrong, it wouldn't, it  _wasn't_ already.

He would have kept his mouth shut, stopped himself from burning whatever unstable wooden bridge that remained, but their hopeful expressions cut him to the quick.

Things did  _not_  always look up.

Athos' lip peeled back from his teeth. "It's not been the three of us since the first time you slept together."

Their faces dropped at the hint of venom in his tone, Porthos' the most. "Don't say that, it wasn't  _like_ that."

"What was it like, then? Sneaking off behind my back, as if I wouldn't—" Athos broke off to angrily gasp for words "—wouldn't be happy for you?"

There were a few seconds of silence where they were completely focused on him, their scrutiny painful as Porthos asked quietly, "Are you?"

Athos had to force himself to speak. "Yes, of course."

Aramis' nod was more of a jerk, but he didn't meet Athos' eye. "So you went to Ninon because you love her."

"What?" Athos' reply was startled out of him, but when Porthos frowned at the confusion in his voice, added hastily, "I mean, in a way, yes."

Porthos gave what sounded like a reluctantly accepting sigh, but Aramis' angry gaze darted to Athos, a condemning sort of knowledge in it. "Liar. I know you don't, not in the same way."

Athos suddenly felt as if he was in court, and had walked in feeling as if he would get off lightly, a backhander to the judge and a criminally expensive defence attorney.

He hadn't expected a cross-examination from Aramis, who looked as if he was about to deliver a  _coup de grâce_  and spill his blood across the floor.

Freedom wasn't in the form of a crack in the ice now, it was the crack of a gavel, and something terrorised leaped in Athos' pulse, the same terror that always arose with the fear of  _they know._  "What do you mean, the same way as what?"

Porthos made a low, uncertain noise. "Aramis…"

"Liar, Athos,  _liar._ " Aramis' eyes threatened to glint, his tone turning desperate and confused. "Why won't you admit it? We're your best friends!"

Porthos gaped, his expression furious. " _Aramis_ , stop."

Athos could barely drag in a breath through his dread. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do, why do you have to be so fucking stubborn?"

"Aramis, fuckin' 'ell, you gotta stop."

Aramis' lip quivered, but he bit it with an angry whimper, and both Athos and Porthos shook with the need to go to him.

To move now might very well be the final step, on ice and mine both.

A tear dripped down Aramis' cheek. "I loved you from the first day I saw you, Athos de la Fère, you  _ane_ , from the first time I called you  _mon cher_ , you were  _mine._ " Aramis threw a hand out to point at a gobsmacked Porthos. "And so did he, and he was mine, and I was his, and so are you, but he wouldn't let me  _tell you._ "

Athos' mouth had opened but no sound came out, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he tripped over that one, four-letter word and tried to understand even a  _shred_ of what was happening.

Porthos held up a hand, his gaze shifting nervously between them both. "Unfair, Aramis, no one can ever be ready for what you're doin' right now."

Aramis' hands fisted at his sides. "What's that, telling him what he should have always known? That we're here, for anything, through anything, and I  _know_ that he loves us too."

Porthos sighed, fingers squeezing his temples, but only one word escaped Athos' numb lips. "How?"

Porthos' head came back up, his eyes widening, and only then did Aramis hesitate.

Athos frowned, a sick feeling in his stomach. "How would you know something like that?"

Porthos groaned, "Oh, fuck," and Athos shook his head in disbelief even as Aramis nodded shamefacedly.

"Treville threatened to kick me out if I told anyone, but I would know your writing style anywhere, Athos."

Athos quaked, tiny little ripples that cascaded through him that seemed to whisper,  _no._

 _Aramis,_ Aramis was the Agony Aunt,  _Aramis_ had read every single letter that he had sent to the newspaper's advice column, every little insight to his life, because Athos could have  _sworn_ that Aramis couldn't keep anything from him.

Apart from the two biggest things.

Three, if he considered that…  _speech_ had a grain of truth in it.

Porthos had sagged against the wall, looking off somewhere in the middle distance. "That's how you knew I wanted us to 'appen again."

Aramis' attempt at a smile was pitiful. "It was so awkward that first morning, and then you wrote the sweetest email, not knowing whether it would be too much to just go next door and say—."

"—Everythin' started makin' sense with you in my arms." Porthos' fingers squeezed the bridge of his nose. "You came tearin' into my room."

"I had to, I knew exactly how you felt."

"Aramis, that's like cheatin', it's like," Porthos grabbed for words, "fuckin' mind-readin'."

Aramis frowned, not understanding. "But it helped."

Porthos laughed in a tired exhale. "Think that's a bit debatable, right now."

It took Athos a moment to realise that Porthos was more concerned with Aramis' breach of trust than the things he had said, the truths that had come out.

They had known all along, for all these years.

Athos had been watching this unfold, the vulnerability of Aramis' smile, the confused affection in Porthos', and shook his head. "Wait, wait." Aramis flinched, but Porthos gave him an encouraging look. "If you've been… sleeping together, since first year, why haven't you been," Athos' mouth twisted as he tried to say it, " _together,_ properly?"

Porthos aimed a look at Aramis, one that said,  _you can field this one._

Aramis' eyes were still a little glassy, but he shrugged. "You would have noticed."

Porthos shook his head. "No, that wasn't it, it was 'cause it didn't feel right."

"Why?"

Aramis looked away, but he said easily, "Because you weren't there."

"That's what we're sayin', Athos," Porthos took a huge breath, offering him a nervous smile. "We wan' it to be three, like it's always been."

Aramis met his eye, and once again Athos saw that offer of unification, but this time it was from both of them. "Like it's meant to be."

Athos stared.

_This wasn't happening._

Surely not, not after all these years of him telling himself he was wrong – both factually and morally. Not after the lies, and the pain, and the promises he had made to himself to keep them all from getting hurt.

He had dreamed, he had hoped, he had wondered, but he had never actually thought it would come to pass.

Things like this didn't happen, things did  _not_ always look up.

It was here, at the biting point, that what Ninon had said acted as the guillotine, even though she would hate to know it, because this time, this one time, she was wrong.

If delight was supposed to soar through him, bringing life to broken wings, it was wrong.

Instead, it felt as if it dragged on him, as if it pummelled his defences and whispered,  _look, look what you could have, all those hopes and dreams could come true._

If only he wasn't his parents' son, and if only the times had changed.

It was depressing how easy the words came out, but he'd been a mouthpiece, a figurehead, a marionette doll for so very long.

"I can't."

Aramis' eyes closed, another glint on his cheek, and Porthos' nod was jerky, his voice hoarse, "Okay."

It wasn't okay, not at all, but what else could be said?

Aramis swiped at his cheek, and Porthos looked as if he wanted to reach over the distance and hold him close, as if they both grieved for something. "Why do you keep going back to Ninon?"

"Because it would have been easier," Athos murmured, and grit his teeth against the pressure in his throat, and when he looked up to see them both staring curiously at him, he shook his head in exasperated amusement.  _Jealous,_ Ninon had said. "It was never like that between us."

Aramis frowned, but Porthos gave a choke of a laugh, "I fuckin' told you, she knows 'im too well."

"But the dance, the kissing, the nicknames?"

Athos gestured with one hand irritably. "I was copying  _you,_ I thought it was  _normal._ I don't know how to dance, you were dancing with Porthos – I thought it was what friends did."

Porthos gave him a dubious look over his smile. "You thought it was  _friendly?_ "

"Yes, exactly my problem – how was I supposed to know?"

"Because of how it made you feel, Athos," Aramis exclaimed exasperatedly.

Athos remembered all too well how it felt, every ache and pain when he saw them together, sweet torture when he thought it was simply friendship, and pure agony when he realised it was so much more than that. "It felt…"

"Shit," they both said, and Athos' smirk was weary.

"Yes, completely."

It was only when he said it that he realised he was agreeing with them, that he was telling them something that he shouldn't.

Once again he felt the strings of his joints pull tight, and the denial forced out through his lips as if the mouthpiece he was supposed to be was faltering, as if his resolve was weakening, as if he was forgetting all the reasons why. "I  _can't_."

Aramis threatened to stamp a foot, his expression petulant, as if Athos was simply being selfish. "Why?"

Porthos shook his head. "Bullshit you can't. If you couldn't, Ninon wouldn't keep settin' us up."

Aramis' eyebrows rose, and then he scowled, muttering, "Oh,  _merde,_ she has, hasn't she?"

Porthos' smile was affectionate. "Yep."

Aramis sighed, "I am going to have to grovel at her feet, aren't I?"

"Yep."

Aramis groaned and pushed a hand through his hair, "I was so rude to her."

 _Jealousy._ Athos chewed on his tongue, wondering what else Ninon had been right about.

"You said that Porthos wouldn't let you… say anything," he ventured slowly, wondering at Porthos' wince when Aramis glared good-naturedly at him.

"Porthos said that you should be allowed to realise on your own."

" _If_ there's anythin' to realise, I wasn't gonna pressure you, Athos," Porthos offered with an embarrassed flush. "If you wanna say somethin', that's fine, if you don't, that's fine, too. You're the boss."

Athos felt a bloom of affection burst through him at the protective overture, and with a small smirk that he actually felt like a little ray of sunshine, pointed at Aramis. "You know he tried to kiss me that morning I yelled at d'Artagnan."

Aramis' jaw dropped. "What?!  _You_ tried to kiss me!"

Athos raised an eyebrow, gesturing in disbelief at himself, at his oh-so-supposed heterosexuality, and Porthos grinned for the first time since they had come home. "He has a point, sweet, Athos ain't the type."

Aramis snorted, refusing to look at them both as he muttered, "You didn't see the look in his eyes."

Athos tensed instinctively, that same thread of fear rearing its head – but it was a little late for that.

He was so close to freedom; he just wasn't sure which path to take to get there – what, even, freedom would entail, because he would never escape the strings of his past.

Porthos looked at him questioningly, because if Aramis was right then the signals were there, the  _truth_ was there; and if Athos hadn't been himself, he might have just admitted it, or even joked,  _who doesn't want to kiss Aramis?_

But he had lived the lie this long, and it was no longer just for himself.

The repercussions would affect them, too, and that he would never allow.

The question was there, he just had to answer it.

"I can't."

Athos saw the light die in Aramis' eyes, saw the slump in his shoulders. Porthos simply nodded, and Athos expected another 'okay', because Porthos was always the one who  _knew_ , who protected him from the intense emotions, but even Athos heard the reluctance in his voice as his façade fractured one more time.

Porthos' head tilted to the side. "Is that a no?"

Aramis' attention darted to Athos, renewed interest on his face, and Athos' mouth dried. "I don't understand."

"Well,  _no_ means that's it,  _no_ means we read this wrong an' we respect your decision,  _no_ means this conversation's over an' we'll muddle through, somehow, but…"

" _Can't_ means there's a chance," Aramis murmured, eyes darkening in a way that Athos had seen so many times before, but this time it was aimed at him,  _because_ of him.

And it felt glorious.

Beneath the heritage, the lie, and the façade, somewhere within the tangled roots of his heart, he was in love with them, body and soul.

Hadn't the last three years told him that?

"If you tell us  _no_ , Athos, we'll stop," Porthos said, always offering a way out, the steadiness amidst the turbulence.

Aramis' smile was sly and utterly turbulent. "But until then, you're no longer just our friend, our  _capitaine._ "

Porthos' hand reached out to snag Aramis by the hip, but their eyes were fixed on Athos as if they could see straight through him and wanted more. "You're ours."

Athos released the breath he had been holding, and with it, came a clarity that made his stomach flutter and his palms tingle.

He was being seduced.

He fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole first scene was pieced together a few months ago - occasionally I like to ~~ruin~~ make Lancelot's day by randomly texting her a character question and then answering it myself in the form of writing a scene (I am physically incapable of writing actual notes). This one was, "Do you think Athos would go to Ninon? I could see him at her front door, glassy-eyed and disbelieving..." It normally earns me a lot of screaming.
> 
> I also can't stop myself from quoting things that tear my heart in twain, [I'M SORRY](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com).  
> ( _Because it was real._ AHH.)


	16. Gutta Cavet Lapidem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A water drop hollows a stone.
> 
> This was supposed to be an easy chapter until those two took over at the end, so instead have 7k of, ah, I hesitate to say resolution but... _"I'm not locked up in here with YOU. You're locked up in here with ME."_

 

> You see a pair of laughing eyes,  
>  and suddenly you're sighing sighs.  
>  You're thinking nothing's wrong,  
>  you string along, boy, then snap!
> 
> Those eyes, those sighs, they're part of the tender trap.
> 
> You're hand-in-hand beneath the trees,  
>  and soon there's music in the breeze.  
>  You're acting kind of smart,  
>  until your heart just goes wap!
> 
> \- Frank Sinatra,  _"Love is the Tender Trap"_

Athos was trapped within his own home.

Trapped, like a rat in a maze, or a fly in a window, or— or— a coward hiding from his best friends. It was insufferable, and he was tired of striding to his bedroom door only to stop short with his fingers nudging the handle, his thoughts caught somewhere between a firm  _I won't_ and a desperate  _I can't._

An effective prisoner, he hadn't even been able to get to his wine, because doing so would mean going downstairs, past the living room, past them.

He'd had to, once, just to get something to eat after yesterday's debacle, hunger seeming a fitting punishment for his transgressions – many and various as they were. Like a thief in the night he had made it to the kitchen and back again, pausing only when he had heard voices over the television's noise.

Aramis' sad sigh and Porthos' soothing, "Give 'im time."

Athos had closed his bedroom door with a hollowness to his heart, and faced with the realisation that  _he_ had caused it, caused Aramis' sadness, he had shunned the food and stayed up late into the night with only the moon for company.

There were questions that he couldn't answer, problems he couldn't solve and futures he couldn't protect. There were things he couldn't deny, and some that were all too easy.

What were they giving him time for? To settle back into their old way of things, or to take a leap of faith into something he still wasn't sure he could believe? He had denied it all for so long that it was as second nature as breathing.

Athos' dreams were of a single door opening and closing.

He heard it again in the morning, and knew with sinking certainty that it hadn't been a dream.

Athos groaned into his hands, limbs cramping from sleeping with his back against the bed and his knees against his chest, stomach aching from hunger and chest tight with exhaustion.

Like an eager to please hound, his mind heard the door and provided him with images, scenes that flashed unbidden before his eyes, sounds that whispered and touches that tantalised, all part of the rich tapestry he had woven for over two years and, despite all his best efforts, refused to unravel.

If his blood had started sluggishly, now it sped up too swiftly, a steady warm thrumming that sent his skin tingling and his fingers curling, all responses he knew too well when his thoughts drifted south.

But they had been just that, thoughts; torturous, tempting,  _unlikely_ thoughts – and yet what if they hadn't been? How many times had he been mere metres away from the two of them entwined in each other's arms whilst he slept restlessly on?

What if he had been trying to purge himself of the day's memories with his hand trailing down his stomach, and the thoughts that had flittered through his head had unknowingly been acted out in the next room?

When he palmed himself, thinking of them, had Porthos laughed as breathlessly as he did in Athos' head, and had Aramis' nails caught at Porthos' shoulders as they did in Athos' dreams?

It wasn't shock that thundered through Athos' body when he realised how often he had seen angry lines on Porthos' skin and been told  _it was a rash._

Nor, indeed, the suck marks on Aramis' neck that Athos had always attributed to some other lucky bastard.

When, in fact, that lucky bastard had been Porthos.

Athos wasn't sure whether to laugh or despair at the painful irony of it all.

The heated emotion drained like warm water down a plughole when someone knocked on his door. Athos twisted to stare at it for a moment as his aching muscles – and his aching mind – protested any movement.

Any movement that wasn't going to relieve him of the pressure that had started coiling low in his stomach, anyway.

The knock came again, and Athos hated how he knew from the intensity of it that it was Porthos.

He hated his own want to see him even more, because tied up in that want was an uncertainty that wanted everything to go back to how it was. At least he  _knew_ that, he didn't know how they would react today, whether they would shun him for running or venture down a path Athos wasn't sure he could follow.

When the knock was insistent, Athos knew that they would drag him down that path, except that it would be less of a drag and more of a rat following two very charming pipers.

Unless he said no.

It would be so easy, so very easy to say that one simple word, to end it all now before he got too deep, before he lost himself to them. Lost himself to this mad, ridiculous, insane possibility that anything between them might work.

But when did everything work out for him, when did anything ever look up?

They had put the power in his hands, they would listen, they would back off.

And that was the problem.

Athos muttered obscenities under his breath as he stood. If he was a rat – a love rat, at this rate – he had already thrown himself into the water, and was now so very far up shit creek he couldn't even hold himself afloat anymore.

Athos reached the door as Porthos had been about to turn away, and his sleepy smile made Athos' pulse flutter, a war of desire and damnation rumbling through his thoughts.

If Athos touched him, would his skin still be warm? There were lines on Porthos' cheek from the wrinkles in his pillow, his hair askew from running his hands through it, and the unusual addition of actual  _clothes_ this early in the morning.

Athos knew with damning clarity that Porthos slept naked if he could, but normally he wandered the house in the novelty Batman pyjama bottoms Aramis had bought him.

As Athos' fingers tightened on the door handle, he realised that Porthos had shaved.

"Mornin', this letter came for you." Porthos passed the envelope over with a roll of his eyes. "Aramis wanted to steam it open 'fore you woke up."

Athos didn't correct him on his sleeping pattern, couldn't even find his voice until Porthos started walking away. "Why?"

It wasn't the letter he asked about, it was Porthos' apparent normality, the friendliness despite everything that had happened; but, naturally, Porthos was ever to the point.

"The Musketeers crest's on the watermark."

Athos frowned, holding the envelope up to the light until the fleur-de-lis appeared. A fresh burst of apprehension bubbling through his veins – this one a learned response – and his sigh had Porthos turning around, concern a pucker in his brow.

"You alright?"

The heated thoughts of before were just a whisper away from overtaking him, but he had a lot of practice by now. Thankfully Porthos didn't tease, he was just good at seeing past Athos' shields, but even Aramis couldn't shake Athos' calm these days. "A letter from Treville is never a good sign."

Porthos shrugged, a half-hearted, lazy thing. "S'probably nothin', just somethin' for the paper."

"Then why not email me?" Athos mused, a part of him lured into this sense of sleepy idleness as he turned the paper over in his hands – it was good stock, actually.

When Porthos leaned comfortably on the wall, Athos was forced to consider that maybe nothing had changed, he wouldn't have to say no, maybe they were going to go back to how they were before, before the truths and the not-so-truths.

It was how Athos would have dealt with it.

Always running.

Porthos paused, his gaze seeming to take its time dragging from Athos' restless fingers. "That all that's botherin' you?"

Immediately, Athos' hackles were up and he twisted the truth almost instinctively. "Yes, I just... didn't sleep well."

"Massage?" Porthos offered with a wicked smile, and two weeks ago Athos would have thought himself alone in feeling warmth flare at his nerve endings, in feeling fire flicker up his spine.

That same fire flickered freely in Porthos' eyes, and Athos knew. Things had definitely changed.

Athos' calm shook. He closed the door, and could have sworn he heard Porthos chuckle as he headed downstairs.

 

* * *

 

Athos gave himself twenty minutes to get a grip.

Twenty minutes and an ice-cold shower – the grip was denied, it would just cause more problems.

Problems that seemed determined to harangue him anyway as Porthos' offer continued to rumble throughout his head, the fire continuing to burn its merry way through Athos' sanity until he practically threw himself into the kitchen in a mad bid for a drink.

The fact that the sun hadn't even crested the house yet should have stopped him in his tracks, but Porthos did it for him.

It was their usual morning greeting and it happened on habit alone, a little nod on Athos' behalf, a mumbled greeting and a smile towards whatever foodstuff Porthos had been tinkering with.

Athos eyed the counter warily, but he kept an eye on Porthos, unsure where they stood when Athos hadn't responded to that  _overture_ upstairs.

Porthos flipped a tea-towel over his shoulder and if he noticed Athos' suspicion, pretended he didn't. "Oh, I was gonna make breakfast but we're outta milk."

Athos saw his chance to escape and leapt for it. "I can—"

"—S'fine, Aramis volunteered." At Athos' surprise, Porthos added conspiratorially, "I know, shocker, right?"

Athos simply hummed an agreement, still feeling as if this was some sort of trick, especially as Porthos turned back to the counter, counting the eggs under his breath.

Now it felt as if everything was normal again, as if that teasing offer of before had never happened. Athos didn't understand.

Aramis appeared at the foot of the stairs, hair swept back and a flash of fuchsia scarf at the neck of his cream, belted jacket. It was the designer one that Athos had bought him for Christmas last year.

The familiar twist of lust and guilt shot through him, but if there was any indicator to what the situation was between them all, it would be Aramis, who wore his heart on his sleeve and his desire in his eyes.

So the shy smile confused Athos even more.

Normally Aramis would steal a hug – along with a bite of his food – and just generally make Athos consider going straight back to his shower.

But  _shyness?_ Athos didn't know what to do with an Aramis whose face lit with happiness simply at seeing Athos standing in their kitchen.

A happiness that made everything else seem brighter.

At Athos' stunned silence, Porthos looked up and kept looking, one eyebrow slowly raising. "I know you hate the cold, love, but seriously?"

Athos expected Aramis to sniff haughtily and tout the benefits of wrapping up warm, as he usually did, but instead a devilish grin accompanied a sly, "Who said I was wearing anything underneath it?"

Porthos snorted a laugh, shaking his head in fond amusement as Aramis breezily strode out the front door with a little wink at Athos.

The effect it had was startling, as it always was, but it seemed more so now, as if there was  _intent_ behind it. Perhaps it had always been there and he had just never recognised it.

The silence reigned for a while, questions and answers tumbling through his head before it got too much, before the very basis of his life for the past two years seemed to crumble.

"What's happening?" Athos asked into the quiet of the kitchen, seeking stability, and Porthos was always the answer.

Porthos didn't turn, for which Athos was grateful, and his voice was its usual level self. "What d'you think's happenin'?"

Athos frowned at Porthos' back, aware that he was being given the control once again, a chance to choose what would happen. He didn't  _get_ choices like these, his future was chosen for him, it had never been his to decide.

And now that he had a chance of getting what he had dreamed about, the reality was terrifying.

"I think… I think you're both pretending nothing happened."

The grin that Porthos tossed over his shoulder was a knowing one. "That  _really_ what you think?"

No, no it wasn't, because they kept acknowledging Athos in ways they never had before. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed it – how could he not, he remembered every moment when he was alone in his room – this was different, more aware, more… persistent.

"I don't know what to think," he said quietly, and the honesty of it had Porthos turning around in surprise, his brow furrowing slightly.

"No pressure, Athos."

It was then that Aramis returned in a loud clattering of keys, shopping bag in one hand and a pink rose in the other.

"Did you nick that from someone's garden?" Porthos asked suspiciously, concerned gaze flicking to Athos again.

"You aren't a romantic, Porthos, you wouldn't understand," Aramis announced airily, and aimed his most charming smile at Athos. " _Pour toi, mon cher_."

Everything clicked; the evocative smiles, the deliberate teasing,  _floral gifts?_  It was there, staring him in the face, two pairs of slightly anxious eyes and an offer of breakfast.

They were flirting with him.

There was a beat of silence where nobody moved, where Athos' brain tripped over itself as it tried to  _choose,_ choose between two paths that both disappeared into uncertainty.

Aramis' smile took on a nervous edge and every path converged on Athos doing anything to erase it, so he reached for the stolen bloom.

There was a sense of satisfaction in the room before Athos pricked his finger on a thorn and hissed, finding himself loath to let the stem go despite the pain, to the let the moment go before he had deduced its purpose.

Aramis gently pulled it from his grasp, twisting their fingers together and lifting them as Athos watched, until that tiny little hurt was being kissed by Aramis' soft lips.

Athos' inhalation sounded shotgun-loud in the silent room, and Porthos stared before seeming to tear himself away to focus on the food. It was somewhat easier, only having to deal with the edges of Aramis' smile either side of his finger.

The agony within him was not, but the choice was there.

The chance was within his grasp, to throw caution to the wind and accept the dreams he had always thought were so very far out of reach. To allow himself happiness now might very well mean disappointment in the future, and the thought of hurting them made him want to pull back.

Aramis' tongue flashed over Athos' finger before he let go, and every nerve ending sparked, every thought arrowing on  _yes_.

Porthos checked on them over his shoulder and nudged Aramis with a foot to get his attention. "Help me with these, sweet?"

It gave Athos a chance to catch his breath and, when Porthos shot him an encouraging look, choose to lean against the counter rather than run out of the room.

It wasn't quite _yes_ , but it was a start.

 

* * *

 

If Porthos was the temptation of sturdy ground after months at sea, Aramis was the sunlight that warmed Athos' breeze and brought a glow to his calm skies.

Although  _calm_ wasn't exactly the accurate word right now.

After a breakfast of apparent normality – Aramis detailing his shopping trip, Porthos grumbling about a paper he had to do – Athos was sat in the living room, fingers idly turning at the pages of his book even as his thoughts were elsewhere.

The objects of those tumbling thoughts barrelled into the room seconds later.

It was strange that when he thought they didn't know how he felt, it was easier to hide it. Now he was tense, not daring to look up at them in case it somehow gave the depth of his feelings away, as if the truth was right there in his eyes.

It probably was, it was the only thing he couldn't control.

Porthos plucked the remote from Athos' thigh, apparently not noticing how he had frozen, and threw himself at the opposite end of the sofa, grunting when Aramis followed swiftly after.

"Mind your feet, you'll bump Athos," Porthos growled good-naturedly, forcing Aramis to sit nicely between them.

Still Athos didn't look up, but he did murmur, "It's fine."

"See?" Aramis announced smugly. "It's fine."

"Sure it is," Porthos said with an amused shake of his head, and grinned without looking away from the television when Aramis began sidling into Athos' space.

Athos was too tense to move, and only when Aramis was touching the entirety of his right side did he look down at the head resting against his shoulder and the innocuous smile aimed his way.

"Whatcha doing?"

Porthos snorted quietly, and Athos realised he was being charmed.

The smile that threatened to curve his mouth was entirely reluctant. "I  _was_ reading a book for my next seminar."

Aramis just made an uninterested little noise, twisting slightly until he could prop his legs on Porthos' lap, and said, "If you didn't want to be disturbed you shouldn't sit in the living room – it's in the name."

Athos lifted his chin when Aramis' tried to wriggle underneath it, the warmth of his back almost pushing against Athos' chest. This wasn't strictly normal for them, Aramis was never  _this_ cuddly with him, but Athos' cheeks started to ache with the effort of not smiling. "One can  _live_ in peace and quiet."

"One could," Aramis mimicked in sleepy contentment, "if you didn't  _live_ with us."

Porthos flicked one of Aramis' toes, causing him to squeak. "Don't lump me in with you, I can be right quiet."

Athos had to raise an eyebrow then. "Just because your eardrum-tearing music plays through your headphones does  _not_ make you quiet."

"What, but your classical shit on the house speakers, that's quiet?"

"As Aramis said,  _it's in the name._ "

Aramis snickered when they glared at each other over his head, and Athos struggled not to laugh when Aramis snuggled closer to him and stuck his tongue out at Porthos, clearly choosing a favourite.

The smile that hinted at Porthos' mouth was fond, until he glanced at Athos, checking – as always – if he was alright.

Aramis stopped wriggling, and Athos couldn't see his face as he asked hesitantly, "This okay?"

They were sat in the living room, chatting and laughing as they always did, and Aramis' body heat was like warm fingers brushing over his chest, and it felt  _normal._

It was better than okay.

Athos lifted his arm, trying to angle it better, trying to allow Aramis to press closer, and it made his reply terse, "No—"

The two of them flinched, Porthos immediately preparing to pull a horrified Aramis onto his lap, and Athos realised what he had done.

"No! I meant it wasn't comfortable," he said, the words practically tripping out of his mouth so desperate was he to reassure them. Aramis relaxed slightly, but Porthos was still watching him worriedly.

"No pressure, Athos."

Athos let out an angry noise. "I'm not saying no!"

_Oh._

The hope that dawned on Aramis' face was almost painful to see. "You aren't?"

Athos had frozen, wondering if the truth had just been ripped from his lips, whether he had finally chosen because the thought of this,  _this,_ ending, was abhorrent. A life without it seemed a nightmare compared to any other terrible eventuality that might happen with it.

His breath came in short, quiet bursts, his head thrusting reason after reason why this was a bad idea, and yet…

It didn't  _feel_ like one.

Porthos forcibly relaxed, his jaw still clenched but his eyes dragging from Athos' to the television, giving him the reprieve he so sorely needed. "Mind if I put the Formula 1 on, Athos?"

Aramis opened his mouth to ask something but Porthos squeezed his leg, and instead he grumpily pushed his face into Athos' arm, the one that was still hovering in mid-air. Slowly, so very slowly, Athos lowered it until it rested over Aramis' shoulder.

A delighted little smile peeked up at him.

_Oh God._

"Yes," Athos murmured, looking at his book but not seeing anything on it. "Go ahead."

The sky didn't fall, the ground didn't open, fire didn't start raining from the heavens nor floodwater rising from below.

It was almost anticlimactic, but it was exactly what Athos wanted to happen.

Absolutely nothing changed.

The sigh that escaped him seemed heavy, but it left him weightless, a limp thing with slack strings and nowhere in the world he would rather be. Aramis rolled over to watch the television, one hand twining with Athos' where it now lay over his chest. Porthos' arm braced on the back of the sofa, and every now and again his fingers brushed Athos' elbow.

They were the same little touches as before, as if whatever  _this_ was had been happening all this time and Athos just hadn't seen it, hadn't allowed himself to see it, to be happy.

He felt it now, like a terrifying, burgeoning thing in his chest, but it eased to comfortable levels when Porthos jeered at a crash on the screen and Aramis swooned over scruffy-faced drivers.

It was normal, it was  _nice._

"I really need to read this," he murmured a while later when the sound of the car engines started to bore into his brain, genuine reluctance mingling his words.

Disentangling himself from Aramis was one of the hardest things he had ever done, Aramis keeping their fingers together until the last possible moment. That concern was back on Porthos' face, so just before he was about to leave the room, Athos paused. "Lunch in an hour?"

Their smiles were beatific.

 

* * *

 

They were giving him time, time to acclimatise. It felt normal, yes, but this, the little touches, the smiles, they were just the tip of the iceberg, and the cobalt blue underneath the water was too bright for him to look at right now.

It took time to chip away at everything he had been trying to tell himself for two years, and they were giving it – with ample pickaxes on Aramis' behalf.

 _No pressure_ was the buzzword of the hour, and yet twice Athos was waylaid by Aramis about the house, once on the stairs – which should comfortably fit two people and yet seemed considerably smaller when Aramis was using them as hunting grounds – and again after lunch.

Athos had made it no further than two feet from his bedroom door when Aramis knocked, trying to edge his way into Athos' room as innocent as anything. Until Athos cleared his throat rather pointedly and glanced at the book in his hand.

Aramis had simply taken the chance to get closer, ratcheting Athos' awareness levels into the stratosphere for the  _n_ th time today.

Herculean tasks had nothing on getting Aramis to leave when he wanted to do anything but – which apparently included trailing his fingers down Athos' arm and offering a 'study session'.

Patience was decidedly not a virtue and more of a very persistent demon that nibbled at your ear.

Athos had dealt with his fair share of demons though – and then some – so it was with one very tight grip on his book that he managed to talk Aramis into leaving before talking himself into a glass of wine.

It had been a long day, a bit of liquid courage wouldn't go amiss.

This time, when he sneaked downstairs, it was with an unfamiliar sense of mischief tickling his fingertips, as if he was avoiding them for the fun of it rather than because he couldn't face them.

Not that the two weren't mutually exclusive at the moment.

They were in the kitchen, which ruled out most of his alcoholic stock, but the overflow was under the stairs well within Athos' reach – as long he glared at the hinges and warned them not to squeak.

Just when one did, Athos heard Aramis stamp his foot. "Nothing I do is working!"

Athos paused halfway inside the cupboard, his fingers hesitating around a bottle neck as he tried to draw it out without making any noise.

Porthos' chuckle was low and inviting, the very sound of it sending shivers up Athos' spine and stopping him in his place. If any thoughts of not eavesdropping had crossed his mind, that laugh had whisked them away. "He's learned your tricks, love. You're bein' a bit over-bearin'."

They were talking about him, about  _them._

It was ten kinds of wrong to try and listen, to extricate himself from the wine just so he could lean closer to the kitchen door, but he had been knee-deep in wrong for two years and honestly he didn't really care anymore.

Besides, how else was he going to get through this without having a heart-attack every time Aramis came up with a new plan?

As always, Athos was surprised by how much Porthos saw – and amused by what Aramis wanted to see, his tone turning petulant, "Well I think  _you_ aren't showing him how you truly feel."

"You don't show a rabbit your gun, sweet, that'll scare 'im off." Porthos chuckled. "Especially when the rabbit's a wolf that might rip your arm off if you corner 'im."

Athos' eyes narrowed, smile rueful as he wondered if Porthos knew he was listening and that was why he was being complimentary.

"I think you're wrong, upfront is exactly what Athos would want," Aramis argued, and the thought that was going into this was making Athos want a rub a palm across his chest, a fog of something threatening to choke him.

"S'not a competition, sweet."

"No, it's about Athos," Aramis agreed, voice softening for those four words. "And who gets to kiss him first."

Athos straightened so fast he smacked his head on the doorway, the sound muffled along with the suddenly irregular thump of Athos' pulse.

That iceberg was getting closer, the true reality of the situation starting to set off warning bells as he realised he had  _no fucking clue what he was doing._ When was the last time he hadn't slept alone – and the fact that those times were with them but spent in torturous agonyreally didn't help matters.

He was now in a house – in something  _more_  – with two of the most tactile creatures in the whole world and Athos couldn't even hold Aramis' hand without needing to recite the French national anthem and picking out a coffin.

He didn't know  _how_ to do what they did so naturally, how to touch and be touched without falling apart at the seams, how to return what they gave so freely, how to lov—

"Drinking alone, Athos?"

Athos let out a French expletive that had Aramis tutting, but Athos  _heard_ the smile in it even before he turned around at the top of the stairs to see it, feeling caught in the act as he tried to clear his mind of the fog that started to make him feel a bit unworthy.

Aramis leaned into one flash of tanned hip and Athos changed that to a  _lot_ unworthy.

Athos' retorts failed him when Aramis stepped closer, his mischievous air tangible enough to feel like the purr of a big hunting cat that had run its prey to ground.

With Athos effectively backed against the wall, Aramis took the bottle with ease, glancing at the label only to raise an eyebrow at Athos. "This is from under the stairs. You weren't  _avoiding_ us, were you?"

"No," Athos managed, and would have winced if it hadn't come out husky and caused Aramis to hum as he put the bottle down behind him.

When Aramis faced him again, Athos felt very much like that cornered wolf, but the only thing being ripped was his breath from his chest, because Aramis stalked closer and Athos wanted him to do it faster even as he wanted to bolt.

He could say no, he knew he could – not the no of  _never,_ but the no of  _not right now,_ the no of  _please, Aramis, I want to, but I don't know how to do this._

Aramis was so vibrant, so outrageously gorgeous, and so very much wanting Athos to touch him.

It was heady, knowing that, and knowing it because Aramis used every excuse to get close to him, because his shy smiles turned sly whenever Athos' breathing hitched.

Aramis had long known what he did to Athos, had known with every single letter Athos sent confirming on paper what he denied out loud, because no one could deny Aramis; Athos couldn't deny him when he was on the pull with his perfect curls and his chest bared, and he couldn't deny him when they were at home with his curls sleep-mussed and a strawberry stain below one lip.

Aramis was the sun to his waxed wings and Porthos was the sea that caught and captured him whole.

Aramis' jean-clad thigh pushed in between Athos', and with it was a little stumble as if it was entirely on accident, and the hand that slipped through the buttons on Athos' shirt was only to help steady them both.

It was completely  _unsteadying_ Athos, who was replaying what he had heard in the kitchen over and over again in his head.

Athos knew he was screwed the second his gaze slipped downwards to Aramis' lips, the same ones that he had felt against his fingers only a few hours ago, the same ones he had dreamt about every night for two years.

Expressive and curved and damp and dauntingly delicious.

Aramis should have pounced, Athos expectedhim to,  _wanted_ him to, because here he was practically pinned against a wall with Aramis' every inch pressed against him and those lips bare inches away.

It would have taken the choice from him, confirmed the lust that surged through every blood vessel and the heat that soared in Aramis' eyes, the ones that echoed the pleading little, "Athos."

Aramis wasn't going to do it.

Athos nearly groaned, hating and adoring the gorgeous, gracious creature and Aramis knew it, because he said it again and the whisper of it against his mouth had Athos closing his eyes in complete and utter defeat.

He had been conquered a long time ago, it had just taken this long to realise it, to relish it, to crown the new king and start learning the mother tongue.

It was one he badly wanted to learn.

And so it was blindly that Athos lifted his chin, his lips getting mostly moustache before they met Aramis' in a kiss so surprisingly chaste that his eyes opened.

Aramis was blinking at him, mouth parted ever so slightly in surprise, as if for all his purring and planning he wasn't sure if Athos would ever actually do it.

So Athos did it again, just briefly, their kiss a tiny wet noise when Aramis tried to catch up and meet it, prolong the brush of slightly sticky skin and tickly hairs, his fingers almost twisting in Athos' shirt before Athos let his head thunk against the wall again and wonder if his blood would make its fucking mind up about where it was going.

Soft little breaths passed between them, Athos warily eyeing Aramis to see what he would do next, warily eyeing himself because that iceberg was getting very close and he was tempted to wreck on it, worthy experience or not.

Aramis surprised him again though, because instead of pursuing it, of pushing further, he smiled happily, rubbed their noses together, and announced, "I'm going to have a shower."

That time Athos did groan, and when he touched his lips, he could taste strawberry.

 

* * *

 

Athos ducked into the kitchen and pushed his back against the door, sigh escaping him in a rush as his fingers squeezed his temples.

It took him a moment to realise that Porthos was frowning at him over a bowl of fruit he was cutting. "You alright?"

The flush that had started on his cheeks exactly twelve seconds ago deepened, and when his mouth opened and shut a few times, Porthos' eyes narrowed before he could answer. "Aramis just flashed you, didn't 'e?" Porthos rolled his eyes and gestured at him with the small knife before continuing his cutting. "Y'know it's wrong how I knew just from your face."

Athos still couldn't answer, and so, with Porthos' attention elsewhere and needing to sit down all of a sudden, he fell into one of the other chairs, actually fidgeting as he tried to get his erratic heart rate under control.

A piece of apple was pushed his way, curved in the flesh so the core was completely out. "Aramis calls 'em 'ducks', 'is mum cut 'em this way."

Athos, finally able to catch his breath, bit into the tart chunk and knew he was being given time to cope, again. "Ducks?"

"Fuck knows, anythin' to get a kid to eat fruit, I guess." Porthos shifted his weight, and it brought their legs into contact, Porthos' knee pushing into the jumping muscle of Athos' thigh. Athos checked to see if Porthos had noticed, but the fruit apparently took precedence.

At least until Porthos started grinning, well aware he was being watched, and laughed when Athos tried to raise an unimpressed eyebrow at the 'subtle' show of affection, determinedly  _not_ amused by it.

To prove it, he finished his slice of apple in silence.

The proof failed miserably when he didn't move away.

"What 'appened?"

Athos had hoped that Porthos had forgotten his quick entry to the kitchen, but a glance at Porthos' knowing expression had Athos letting his head fall into his hands, muttering through the gaps in his fingers, "In his defence he did say he was going to take a shower."

"Yeah, but 'e didn't say 'e wasn't just gonna be naked durin', but way before an' probably for agesafter, did 'e?"

Athos knew there was never any point in not being straight with Porthos – although, literally, the opposite was true. Porthos would let him speak his mind without letting their situation affect his response, and so Athos knew he could be honest "No, he did not."

The world beyond Athos' hands was quiet for a moment, and then Porthos said slyly, "Quite a sight, eh?"

Athos' hiss was entirely involuntary.

"Y'know the box says you should see a doctor if it lasts more than six hours."

The hiss he let out upon pulling his head from hands was entirely on purpose, as was the resigned groan. "He's going to kill me."

"You can always say no."

Porthos had the gall to laugh at Athos' glare.

"You gotta deal then, love."

The second the pet name left his mouth, Porthos visibly stilled, possibly for the first time since Athos had met him, and to see Porthos as sheepish was a sight unlike any other.

Athos rather liked it, and to finally feel like the one  _not_ floundering was empowering.

Porthos was always the one making it easier on him, so Athos returned the favour, turning his attention to another piece of apple. "That one's new."

Athos felt Porthos watching him, watching for the warm glow that was starting to suffuse Athos' stomach as he turned that word over in his head, as he mused over earning himself an actual pet name. "For you, yeah."

Which was what had amazed Athos so much, because Porthos only ever used that name on one other person.

"Yes, you've used it on Aramis for a while, haven't you?"

Porthos just hummed, a flush on his cheeks that was so endearing to Athos he wanted to smile. It was so unlike Porthos to be embarrassed about something, and it showed in the slight waver of his hands as he tried to continue cutting apples.

"Put that down, you'll hurt yourself," Athos murmured, a hint of a chide in his voice.

Immediately, Porthos found his centre again, one eyebrow raising in time with one corner of his mouth. "Since when was it you lookin' after me, eh?"

Athos straightened a cuff, happy to fall into a normal topic for them. "You flatter yourself if you think it was the other way around."

"Athos, I've looked out for you since the first day we met."

It was said so easily, full of sincerity, and it stopped Athos short. There was no ulterior motive in Porthos' generosity, no manipulation or selfishness, and there never had been. Porthos had taken one look at Athos and hadn't judged him, hadn't even been swayed by his scowl, and hadn't since.

"I suppose you have," Athos commented quietly, a little stunned to still be on the receiving end of Porthos' benevolence even after all the trouble he had put them through. It wasn't entirely one-sided though, when the time had called for it he had stepped in, had been there when they needed him.

Except in this, and he remembered Aramis saying it on their first night here.

_We need you, Athos._

Athos' eyes traced the pattern of the counter, that familiar fog creeping back in. "Of all the things I felt since knowing you, I didn't expect to feel quite as idiotic as I do now."

Porthos' tone was surprised, those large, steady hands hesitating again. "What, why?"

It was quite a naïve question, really, because Athos had called himself far worse since their first meeting. It wouldn't do, he reasoned, to tell Porthos how guilty he had felt for liking them, how much he hated himself for thinking about them as often as he did.

That wouldn't go down well.

"For not seeing what you so clearly wanted me to," Athos said, so gently and full of shock that it was almost a whisper.

The knife went down with a click, the apple with a thunk, the chair squeaking as Porthos brought it around slightly, and when Athos looked up he  _saw._

Porthos, leaning forward with his hands braced on his thighs, concerned frown creasing his brow, and so unbelievably handsome that he knocked Athos for six every single day.

Was it any wonder that Athos had crumbled under Porthos' friendly onslaught, he, who had only known cold smiles and colder hearts all his life? Porthos had shouldered his way into Athos' straight and ordered life with nothing more than his sunshine smile and a nature so generous it was almost antithesis to Athos'.

Porthos had been the conqueror of Athos' castle, his grin the battering ram and his cheeky charm the warriors. Bolshy and brash but a heart of gold and Athos had  _wanted_ as he never had before.

His fingers itched to ease that frown, to test the muscle in those broad shoulders, to touch the bared skin of his forearms, to trace the patterns on hands that were normally ever so steady.

Could he?

And it wasn't a question of whether Porthos would allow it – tactile thing that he was – it was whether Athos could do it after all this time of holding himself back, of hating himself for wanting to.

Porthos took a deep breath, his tongue worrying at his teeth, that deepening frown only an arm's reach away.

"No pressure, Athos."

It was because of exactly that that Athos turned towards Porthos.

And immediately panicked.

His body felt awkward, as if he had never kissed somebody in his life, but this was  _Porthos_ , Porthos who had been the first person Athos had seen after his fresh start, Porthos who had first made Athos smile on that cold, September morning two years ago.

Porthos who was looking at him with the same amount of nervous anticipation that was thrumming through Athos' bloodstream, sharpening his senses as if he was getting ready for a fight or flight.

Porthos  _had_ shaved, Athos could see the smooth lustre of his jaw as he leaned forward, the little furrow in his brow when Athos hesitated, suddenly hoping he wasn't about to make a twat out of himself.

"Athos—"

Porthos' mouth clicked shut when Athos' hand landed on his knee a second before their lips touched, and something long forcibly silenced was finally satisfied.

It was tentative at first, not chaste like Aramis' had been but testing the waters,  _tasting_ them, the catch of Porthos' slightly rough lips and the twist of freshly cut fruit in bottled sandalwood.

When Porthos' moved slightly, Athos opened his eyes to see Porthos' closed ones and one hand almost lifting to Athos' head, but then it stopped, curled in on itself, and fell again.

Porthos was holding himself back.

It was so typical of him, to shoulder the burden so Athos wouldn't feel rushed, wouldn't feel  _pressured._ But like a fire that had been gently and painstakingly stoked, Athos hungered for more.

Besides, it was all coming back to him now.

He licked at Porthos' lip, and smiled when Porthos' mouth fell open on a groan and blunt fingers immediately settled at the back of his neck, a hold as reassuring as it was unsteadying.

When they squeezed, it was Athos who fell apart.

A surprised, starved noise escaped his throat, and Porthos' thumb nudged at Athos' jaw, angling him slightly, and the first touch of Porthos' tongue to his had him squeezing Porthos' leg.

Porthos stopped immediately, the coiled tension of him palpable against Athos' strained nerves. The hand didn't drop, but Porthos pressed their foreheads together and growled, "Athos."

Porthos was letting him go,  _the fool._

Athos' other hand jumped, the voice in the back of his head asking  _how the fuck is this supposed to work_  silenced when all that mattered was getting Porthos to kiss him again. With fingertips on rough denim and smooth skin, Athos did his own angling, and the huff of Porthos' laugh was swallowed by Athos' greedy inhale.

There was a patch of bristles beneath Porthos' ear, another above the strong line of his jaw, places he had missed shaving this morning.

An image rose unbidden in Athos' mind, one of him with Porthos' head in his lap, straight razor in hand as he gently dragged the deadly edge over the hollows of Porthos' throat, his fingers stroking over his skin in the blade's wake.

It shouldn't have been as erotic as it was, but when Porthos hesitated before sucking Athos' bottom lip in a nip of heated pain, the tiniest of noises escaped him.

Their eyes flew open at the same time, but there was something distinctly pleased in Porthos' dark ones.

At a sound outside, Athos shot backwards into his chair, his lip stinging wonderfully and his brain ravaged with nonsense words and neediness as he wondered what had happened to him in the space of a day.

They had ruined him.

It was terrifyingly glorious.

"Porthos, can you make me apple ducks?" Aramis' croon was cut short when he flew into the kitchen, curls still damp and sans shirt, to see Athos studiously examining an apple and Porthos grinning victoriously.

It didn't take a genius to know what had just happened.

Athos didn't know what to do, would Aramis be angry after trying so hard all day only for Athos to succumb to Porthos' relaxed charm? This was why this had been a bad idea, it didn't work this way, it couldn't work with three.

Aramis looked as if he was about to demand a recap, but then his gaze lit on the table. "Apple ducks!"

Athos released the breath he had been holding only for Aramis to slide into his lap and start chattering about what classes he had tomorrow, one soft fingertip pushing against Athos' swollen bottom lip for one darkly amused moment.

Athos resisted the urge to hide his head between Aramis' shoulder blades.

 _No pressure_ , right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praise the Sun, we have finally reached the point this whole fic has been building up to - it's only downhill from here, right? The clouds have parted, the rainbows are shining, the boys are smiling, everything is wonderful... Or is it? 
> 
> No, it totally is.
> 
> Anyway, here's ~~Wonderwall~~ my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


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